a measure of never changing fire passes down my throat
like the passionate sweetness of honeysuckle wine.
It fills and works, weakens my touch-
a light exposing an unclean room and an untidy bookeeper.
it is easier for a rope to pass the needle's eye than for my soul to be at rest.
unwilling in disrepair a light shines on.
a brazen fist is raised in a dark cellar-
a light shines on.
No comments:
Post a Comment