Natter

rain rolls

down the waved glass,

where i linger reflected

and ask

to carve the type

by hand.

fontless letters

cast to frame,

hands dipped

in crimson shame,

and yet i no longer blame

the arm that turns the screw

to press my flowering heart

to your name.

i ask permission to be

without a reason

to speak.

rhythmic dance

on the tin above,

chisels in waves,

“what do you know

of love?”

.

.© M.G. Iannucci 2017

Art by Christian Schloe

21 thoughts on “Natter

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