Jill: Thankyou. A succession of
infinite strokes, reality's thread!
cheers,
gerald s.
> the pen so cold
> snow is edging the city
> and wind test the monuments
> their verdigris work of the soul
>
> there will always be dancing
> at the bar americain
> though the tongue freezes
> without speech
> and all along the boulevard
> people press their lives
> into the sounds in their heads
>
> there's something tender in stone
> the cold frees it
> the living stand with flowers
> and feel the coming sleet
>
> water is more than rain
> there's no sleep beyond the night
> and now is always interruption
> sweeping away the leaves
>
> I cover my head
> where the cold falls
>
> Jill Jones
> 26 January, snapped 25 Jan Cimetiere Montparnasse
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