rub the dark
spot of her
solitude, her
ribbed
feathers down
.. give,
the water here is
mottled, spun
by the late sun, high
clouds & gulls
heading out.
& still we’re alone
even when I
sanctify these
gentle folds
beneath the cold heavens.
thanks Peter
Love the gravity of this, Marco, the ‘dark spot / of her solitude’, the typography with that ‘..’ speaking something unspeakable, the ‘even when’ of the third stanza and its tension of what hangs each side of it.