Bart Wolffe


Ragged sky at twilight, raw-edged angles of twigs,

An evergreen now-grey ivy leaf scrapes my sight

And all is obtuse, not cohesive, this disembodied day

In winter, no art of refinement, a landscape unfit

For the painter’s brush. But yet, the torn sky

Is bleeding tonelessly, hue of a cold sea frozen

As relentless night’s unrested mind procures

The objects of observation, swallows all

With the same appetite for remorseless oblivion.

And where is the merciful one now?

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