Sleepless,
you turn the tide
of linen, lying
in wait for one
whose sunset lips
are but
your heart’s
eclipse.
Where now:
the promise of a kiss?
Teardrops time
each second’s slip,
as you measure
your distance
from bliss,
and the pledge
he once placed –
on the closed
lids of your eyes –
falters ...
… fades …
… and dies.
© Stuart Higginson 6-11-09

ten 



11 old applause
