Somehow, they finished, these beige-grey dreams
Passing through sunlit air no breeze-wake,
And sunlight falters around unsure,
And nothing of consequence follows so, on, golden,
It pours and is held briefly in a lock, golden,
But does not notice goes on, further, golden
And upon nothing of consequence falls.
Brown-smelly dog runs down a dusty road,
Pawprints picked out in clay sand, and I watch,
Beautiful, and more real in not-real than those
Passing around me gold as the day
And shining with
nothing.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.