…a poem by Sena Quashie — 15 jan, ‘16
My eyes are the dew
On the wet grass
They see only the hand placed
On the page of the rain
Where the thinning of poetry
Is blurred
By trying to reproduce the summer
Under the advent of clouds
It is a failed watercolor
Of a sunshine on the beach
But tomorrow maybe
The light will be at my window
— Sunday, 15 January, 2017