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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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