is the poison of discovery,
the chance of dreaming
recurrent dreams as the mind
is slumbering. Death,
and the notion of death,
a stringless kite surging
up and out through black,
black night until it disappears;
and what we're left holding-
a ball of twine fastened to
a small hole punched in the wood
of a handmade spool.
1 comment:
These poems, rachel
full of surprises, deeply felt
moving through what's deep of me
--Lewis LaCook
http://www.xanaxpop.org/
Post a Comment