Lyn Lifshin

White Pear Snow

this pale lace,
on a few trees
left past the new
condos, a swath
from an evening
dress to remember
the rush of his
fingers, lips
moving.  A few
streets away,
slash of forsythia,
wedge of light
I³m holding
on, clutching,
dazed still
like the 4 year
old quadruptlets
found drenched
in red, grasping
the body of
their murdered
mother

more by Lyn Lifshin