Cinema
a face hangs at a parted curtain
across a landing
rain drips from the knife-slits of red lips
he smears the pock-marked door
with the juice of bitter fruit
in the street outside
would any of it seep sliverlike
even if somehow
it could bypass the tumblers in the lock
from his mouth a cry
and how ankle-deep
it ranalong
the gutters of his grief
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
Added by Poetry Lover
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