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
wouldn't keep


I do love me some Rousseau! 
Even though I'm a little late to the dance at The Mag this week...
now click over and check out the good stuff.