Poetry and Poetics
High thickly wooded slopes, absence of anyone.
But there's the sound of what speaks.
Then what is not shadow pierces the shadows,
It returns and ground moss is suddenly green.
In all the mobbed city street I recognize no one.
But in the hubbub is a silence.
Shafts of late sunlight slant low between buildings
And illumine the perishing trash on the curb.
© by Reginald
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