"back alley
a train's whistle
i had a kiss all ready
and yet"
--@poemexe.com
"No, do not speak soothingly to me of death, glorious Odysseus."
winter of our weave
wilderness from mildew
half a napkin heap
with harm-flinging army
leafmeal lie the reefs
that allow lurch purchase
orange cones acquire
the cold look of bookends
oven winds our weave
lit control panel
from the sea floor
No comments:
Post a Comment