in the dusk of day-shapes

the widow whispers vespers

to dying yellow light

along a row of icons

screaming bloody murder

running sabres through the centuries 

of prophets and atrocities 

something’s approaches 

thru the dusk of day-shapes,

trampling flower beds,

blurring a crescent moon

behind the shed

of little yellow chickens

                      €
         July 24 2o23

        ( for Charles Simac)