It has been nights I have not written to her.
Probably the rusted postboxes in the provinces have all gone down the valley, for they say the cherries are redder there -
I dare not ask my brother if he is afraid
Of galloping train, silent highways, eateries in dark,
nomadic thespians in long overcoats, the stains of their summertime soliloquies haven't weared off just like last sips of Chardonnay
they sift through wet sands and forlorn bus-stops in search of eyes
impatient to be amazed
for my brother finds me
collecting in the froth
regurgitation of what I lost.
Probably the rusted postboxes in the provinces have all gone down the valley, for they say the cherries are redder there -
I dare not ask my brother if he is afraid
Of galloping train, silent highways, eateries in dark,
nomadic thespians in long overcoats, the stains of their summertime soliloquies haven't weared off just like last sips of Chardonnay
they sift through wet sands and forlorn bus-stops in search of eyes
impatient to be amazed
for my brother finds me
collecting in the froth
regurgitation of what I lost.
