The sun burns my face
tender on midwinter morn
a finger through a flame
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this prick I pricked you
with, it sticks
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
i fall on my knees
before this wasteland of words,
the books abandoned
to basement junk shops,
aligned on splintered shelving
ordered in chaos:
orientalists
and philosophers unread
(unread as undone,
the pages gone blank
the letters turned back to white,
white on white thought-blight).
Yet still I write,
a pliable sight.
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