Aureole

AUREOLE

The aureole around Edvard Munch’s grief
is not exactly the same aureole
around the lover
in Gustav Klimpt’s The Kiss.

The primary difference
being that one
loves fresh blood
while the other doesn’t.

They both pleasurably expand
the pool
of our existence,
however;
so, no real harm, there,
I suppose.

Through sandpaper fog
I hear the cries
of several geese
at least
15 minutes
after the main flock
has vaporized.

Alan Britt

Posted over on The Houston Literary Review