joan mcnerney


Even Goya’s portraits

are less intriguing than faces

of frost on my window.


A snowflake

falls in my surprised eyes

…all is black.


What discus player

threw a tangerine moon on

top of Main Street?


The morning mist roams

back and forth like a

voiceless wanderer.


What does this cat think

strumming his tail with such ease

to fugues of Bach?



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