As it Passes

SKYLER MARTYN


Come sit and share

a pot of French press,

two round cups sit

in wait.

 

Watch the cream sink

and swim

in beige wonder

of empty words.

 

Hear the bird song

slip through the window-pane,

like evening light,

gold mounds on the sugar plate.

 

Taste the sweet creak

of the back door

as it slowly falls

shut.

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