by John Swain
Walls melt like pill coatings.
I put on my black suit
and you wore a green dress.
It was New Year’s Eve
and we laughed and danced,
your peacock eyes lost in mirrors.
In the middle of the night
my mouth was parched;
I went for ice.
From the balcony I saw
a woman masked in radiant white
asleep on a couch in the lounge.
Her husband was still playing
Chopin on the grand piano.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 