Quietude

[rowens]

Maybe, 

night’s
quietude
is right for us.


Maybe.
Maybe, night's quietude. 

Glassy moonlight
bathing the grass of memory.

Florentine lawns.
The dead in satin bedspreads.



Moonlight washes
through the glass,
bathes the grass of
memory’s city



Moonlight bathes the grass of memory.
Format it how you like. 





Florentine. Lawns 
of the dead
in satin bedspreads.
Those also, who are here and gone,
time's odds and ends.
There you live, friend,
across in a villa from the park.

In that same way, a simple and concise stripping down. Maybe an odd turn of phrase to heat some feeling. 



And afterwards,
when the moon weeps silently,
my longing knows 
no bounds for thee.