What warmth
is honed to an edge on
what whetstone
These're the cuts
I live by, blunt bubbling
of crowds athwart
That shrouded
thing with shroud-like skin
furnaces along
in shuffles, or
don't you mark such things
with a little hiss,
or don't my
hungers go amiss, change
places, and repent,
doesn't the body
pitch forward into the cold
places, sharpening
itself, a bubbling
of hungers redoubled,
brought to bear
What's carried out
when I scorn the struck match,
seize cheaper fuel
Don't / you / do / it
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment