It’s late, but not late enough, and too early for stripping off the gold foil from that cork, and it’s surely too early for those warm weather gnats drawn to candlelight that nobody sees but leave you marked as meaningless meat, and there’s static tickling the innards of the old radio as we sway like music across the floor, slide soft as stocking feet, hand in hand tucked into the small curve of a back, and as the clock strikes twelve, we pause and turn another page.
Bells like clear vowels
Warm light from a chandelier
Dressed like pink dogwood
Written for dVerse Poets Haibun Monday. AI Digital Art: created using Midjourney’s bot (v4b) Image and poem ©Misky 2022 Shared on Twitter #amwriting