The
moon is a blood orange:
half
devoured, rotting,
lolling
just above the town.
A
shade of Autumn ripeness,
of
succulence
as
Caravaggio might picture it.
Like
a
blown rose’s tarnished
beauty,
like young love, its transience
prompts a blissful melancholia.
prompts a blissful melancholia.
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