one dawn Sunday | poem

poetry

Sunday afternoon

drips on a washing line

full of clothes that hang loose

for grey clouds to break blue.

then comes a cleaning

of glass that homed

gin and wine

lipstick marks

chipped rim edges

dry out on a rack by the sink.

an ashtray reminds many

lungs are meant for breathing.

incense candles burn

only to contain the mind.

sense is often lost

in moments of aban…