Window

What it frames are ever-denser
veils and draperies of rain
swiftly overtaken by transfusions
of encroaching night.

Bonnard-like, the cone of lamplight
concentrates the scene inside:
a red table, a battered chair, your head
bent to the sheet of white, a palimpsest
where cuneiform inscriptions march in stark
graphite, the shadow of gardenias evoking
gardens of the mind, their perfume all
your senses can recall of Babylon.


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