Thursday, 8. January 2004
Four positions of repose
Under a cold moon
what I write, I write
simply.
Words are cracks
That winter etched on my skin.
At a night hour when I write, I write simply. Words are footfalls of panthers pacing my bones.
Lying in bed where I write, I write simply. Words are the insomnia, the bed and the blanket.
Thinking of you, you for whom I write, I write simply. Words are cubits of breaths between us, and don’t require thanks!
My Poems
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