There is a dissipating storm
slipping over the tips of the Alps.
A broken man
begging coins in Houston.
A potter with shaking fingers,
no longer mending in Calcutta.
My shadow
eluding me in dark Boston alleyways.
Your eyes are headlamps,
mirrored windows,
light flashes
behind my eyelids.
There is a snake,
listless, long, and leering,
at the face of the woman I loved.
Writer Moe 