Minutes before
You appear
Slightly golden
Minutes
Lightly floating
Open handled
Seat of plenty
Burying the skins
The new hates
Taught from tongues
Like mine
If never it is
Poorer, lately
Then always
A white plenty
Dry
On your back
Not speaking once
Neither nights
Neither little deaths
Neither little deaths
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2015
No comments:
Post a Comment