Sunday Morning
I love the way the world is dead
on Sunday morning
all rum bellies still turning.
Last night,
it was all a beautiful nonsense noise, I admit.
But now
not a sound
apart from the buzz of a bee on my sill.
I love the way the world is dead
on Sunday morning
all rum bellies still turning.
Last night,
it was all a beautiful nonsense noise, I admit.
But now
not a sound
apart from the buzz of a bee on my sill.
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