And As I Wait I Tremble
These plates are floating, though I know
They shouldn't be.
The buildings lean in, lowering
Over the street.
Cobbles rush their ancient patterns.
Windows are eyes, but
Lashless. Their cords rattle
And the dancing stars crowd down
In the dark ink-blue.
I wait for you
In this raffish café
At the edge of town.
Thin, the moon, poignant, thin,
Its blade cuts at my heart.
And I think you may be late.
This poem first appeared in Brittle Star.
Clive Donovan lives in Devon. His work has appeared in Agenda, Acumen, Salzburg Review, Stand, Prole, and Interpreters House.
The Ekphrastic Review
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