Arabella Not In Litchfield Anymore, by pd lyons


long strand your haunting hair
even in my notebook
this fine fluke of warm
in the middle of dirty February snow

this little town remembers you by
your pointed shadow foot steps
cigarette alloohs

blue eyes behind dark glasses
rarely visited by such sun
this day would have not impressed you
unseasonably warm
people in shirtsleeves
sudden waterfalls of ice
  from the courthouse roof.





one day when we were far away in miles and in years came upon a strand of your hair in a note book of mine and  thought of that old February day back then and how it was not for very much longer you’d be staying.

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