William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


Sunday evening and the house is calm,

the voices have returned to the street and their bodies have followed them,

their bodies have gone to the stars,

gone to the moss on the sidewalks and cushioned retaining walls,

to the dogwood leaves on the ground and the soft velvet cedar,

padding on dark wild feet with sharp nails exposed to the frost,

where the owl shakes down a wealth of dry needles,

and when the last faint vibrations are consumed by desire,

I pull on my shoes and take out my broom,

sweep the brittle cracks clean for a mile or two,

while night lets down her hair and sighs just like you.

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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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