Saturday, April 20, 2013

The banquet's in the first bite

The scent of a cigar smoked long ago addagio
wafts in a library with blur pages never unread,
erects at dusk a craving for blue grottoes lost.

They have come again late to prep the fountain
for the season, scraping the chipped azure paint
from under the sickly ice of winter's deep sleep.

There's pain in April when the water begins to sputter:
when above a crouching tiger below the torrent rushes.

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