Monday, 22. November 2004
Remains
After this echo
Of a whale’s call
Finishes traveling
Through the blues
To reach that eternal other,
Perhaps surfacing now
As a white spume
Of music from a blowhole,
What shall remain Of me, is a cage Of whale bone, To be whittled away By the finders, into Bead necklaces for The restless deities of Erasure, whose razor like Hands perpetually caress Time’s face.
My Poems
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