Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

Then she was gone. He lay
beneath a tilted moon,
a mocking Venus,
dry-mouthed and aching
with the bite of frost.
He found his pockets emptied,
wallet and coins,
greenbacks among the soggy leaves
his pocket knife,
his comb,
his fine-honed shaving razor
already open
blade gleaming on a blood red banner,
the singing leaf of the oak tree.
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