C'est Fini Paris

words would only lie
in the folds of table-cloth and die
their eyes measured and withdrew touch
across the wilderness of inner space
they listened for the sounds of breaking through a wall
clung hold to cups pale tasteless empty of it all
and then they rose and flew
slow wing beats trailing feathers
from Cafe Temps Perdus

poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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