Night Shift, Iris. And Calliope.
not write poetry for a while. I think the last dates back to at least six months ago, so, here.
I'm glad you're back in some way. Not much of a girlfriend-and inspiration Montalian is all too obvious. However
.
On my shoulder.
Reflections and ice
sott'anche
up the bay of my lights was uninhabited desert
;
water and no chalk on the mud
flushed sky blue. Now where
bring these years oblivious
-between their fingers,
gold between the eyebrows - if not thin out
mists that still knows how to get dark
a waste of auroras rippled?
never returns to the sun. And if my tomorrows
are still behind me
-inflammatory ridicule, and curls - How much hard
redefine the fox.
I have my own now.
If there is a de-ice
now that now that she's me, but I'm not her.
0 comments:
Post a Comment