(Untitled)
never write a poem about a poet
you are the soft poet of fingertips
hanging from the ten that tell you
where to go in the turns of words.
flashes of wool in the dark; your
own fingers pulling apart the pithe
of apples while I watch the light
wrap you from the window frames:
beyond that pane the snow melts;
the pollen craves grass: i crave
wrists; melting ( Read more... )
you are the soft poet of fingertips
hanging from the ten that tell you
where to go in the turns of words.
flashes of wool in the dark; your
own fingers pulling apart the pithe
of apples while I watch the light
wrap you from the window frames:
beyond that pane the snow melts;
the pollen craves grass: i crave
wrists; melting ( Read more... )
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