Claudia Serea

Art Study

The bus enters a pencil drawing,

passes a bridge over a smudge.

 

Squares, houses, triangles, roofs,

trees of charcoal,

 

and your face, a sketch

barely reflected in the window.

 

We sit in the back: white teeth, black hands,

gray criss-cross of silence.

 

We pass from one frame

to another, in darkness.

 

It rains clear yellow, fall’s color,

the color of death.

 

Embraced, we walk on alleys of air.

We are alive.

 

 

 

 

 

rhp home

 


ISSUE 96
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