by Nick Conrad



Metered sunshine. Wind rationed, and rain.
A heaven for incrementalists,
with chaos always just around the corner.
Is it any wonder that he had grown
too fond of night, of the ruined castles
that lined the Rhine. What was there
to do, now that the moon no longer
drifted toward fullness, that tonight,
orange sail unfurled, it plows
through a bank of clouds. There is that,
he thought, that thin peach slice
leaning against a ripe gooseberry.




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