Thursday, November 3, 2011

Scraps

The headlights of a passing truck carves exalted motion in
the stillness of the heavy fog, carving stolid beams
in spacious swirls. Buildings vanish in the vapor
swallowed whole by sea of sky. Eye contact this time of day
is solemn, calm and soaked in understanding: the sense or
senselessness of six a.m; the fullness of forlornness.

No comments:

Post a Comment