an effort to supplicate
nothing
so close as this cloth
my life held on to
and so sick
of justice
never the same twice
not stopping to bellow
only telling
a short breath
my heart
a raw egg
runny,
clear.
think then
of beds
think you us
a sadder tale so
much
the sheets twine
tomorrow into
a now
we long for it.
the crest
of all
flying low
dipping
emasculated
a books pleasure
only
in the who knows?
places
stop wandering,
I cannot go in after.
raw egg heart.
ReplyDelete