Morning fog (a poem)

Sleepy this morning…

Her lips, closed, emerge
from behind the clouds
framed by a jaw both smooth and hard
fading in, out in shades of cool grey
with a hint of blue

I can’t make out the rest of her face
she may not be here for me

The radio in the corner
is stuck on Richard Nixon
rambling on about his mother

(24 January 2019)

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