At the beginning,
where it hurts,
(not like a slap from a spoon,
I wasn't a bad child, was
too good,) I have scrawled
your name in the sheet of
fog
and been marked by your seal.
A puncture wound, it hurts
a puncture wound, so beautiful
was it.
The ageless generosity,
gold coin of the moon,
spoke of something of
something--
but we
did not
understand.
I had what I have.
Will I always be pulling yellow
hair from my mouth
Always, one old
door creaking
No comments:
Post a Comment