the bell's dress
she's morning's residence. she's as clear as she is
invisible, as tranquil as forgotten lands.
her hair is golden, her smooth windows exchange
glances.
she appears in bold alluring colors, a pretty basket of
dew, protected by a long crystal rifle.
on the doorstep, a bush shakes off his medals.
the door is open, but the bush hesitates forever: he
doesn't see he's invited.
gently, the house empties, she jingles her dress, her
heart rustles: the dazed bush doesn't understand.
it's a very complicated game.
from time to time, the glass rifle speaks all alone and
shatters some small thing.
paul colinet
to read more of paul's writing visit this page.
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