Morning in Islington
The heavy stone of the full moon
at dawn sinking
toward the rooftops, its pale yellow light
on the garden.
A fox skitters
across a crescent of hard snow, slips
into the cover of privet.
The golden blue silence …
a winter Sunday—the neighbors’ windows are empty.
I want to see everything. Everything.
I’ll never be ready to die.
Return to Archive
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010