Henri Rousseau, The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897
We were there together, at least
I thought it was you
everything soft and almost
musical, plucked strings of light
the lilting moon
stars tossed like dice
for luck, but even then I knew
that something so familiar
I do love me some Rousseau!
Even though I'm a little late to the dance at The Mag this week...
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