The Setting Moon, West Prince

If it weren’t long gone, the home
my father was born in would be another
one of these empty houses—blank windows,
missing shingles—

beside the quiet western roads of the Island,
with their roofs that shift and groan
all night, sag beneath the swollen
moon’s weight, falling

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Death, Epistemology, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Political Commentary, Social Commentary, Summer, The Moon, Time and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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