Morning in Islington
Tim Tomlinson

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.

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