Sunday, May 18, 2014

note / oh no.

I don't know how your eyes hold the bouquet of flowers
Or how I can see soo much in the dark.

Every sound I know converges to make this silence,
to slow this second for a moment or two more _so that I might distinguish the petal of your lip, _the slender arc of your arm, _this long short night from all those other dreams.

She sways to the music,
a flower in the pool-hall wind.
oh no.
is that a poem looking thing?
it's happening isn't it?
here we go again  

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