those pensive middle summers
quiet solitary dinners
the tenderness of some autumn’s wine
i would walk into the night
down half lit streets walled in vines
beneath the trees
dark-eyed houses
through rain into the small hours
returning home to a warm towel
dozing alone in an armchair
until dawn the creaking silence
swaddled me like linen
then in my bed alone
sleep closed over me
heavy as the earth
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