Recall the day the skies
weren’t fair, the day
grey gales were chasing leaves
along the square.
A Zephyr was belching
newspaper planes
that were bringing you news,
too late, of rains.

Around a fence you had
wrapped your fingers;
around a fence on which
the weary souls
of politicians and
tattered posters
were caught in sharp edges
of rust that lingers.

Were you, along with paper planes,
tossed up against those panes,
of Janus windows that ignored
and spoke to you of infidelity?

Or were those windows silent, then;
as enshrined museum casualty;
showing you those silent men who
would give their wives soliloquy?

Recall how rust had snared your hem,
with dust at present masked.
It brought to mind snapped daisy stem
plucked from earth and asked
to grow – 
to grow.

To go beyond where paper planes
would fly to pierce the brumous sky.

Newspaper planes brought news of rains,
in the smeared ink of your obituary.



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