The Old man’s cabin

The wind is tasted by drinking wine from the wayward shop,

gulped in the red cherry that seldom chirps between the teeth

there is a astray child on a visit to the old man’s cabin who

took a swig of red wine, plumed his shirt and traced the light

off the window with the child on a walk covering the view

he opened the drawer to pull out an old snap of three decades old

saw the red cherry bloom on the face of a young hipster as if

teasing the air in the room, all the dirty years have folded

in one blank ocean where the child reappears- his own self

having sunken underneath the haze of never ending dawn




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