The Papers of the Dead - 4/24/1993
The broken verse
lives here, in these papers
yellow, rough
winds send them hurtling,
dragging traces in ash
over the magma of the plain
scattered, curled
lisping in the blow
shrieking as they touch
and dying as they wait.
lives here, in these papers
yellow, rough
winds send them hurtling,
dragging traces in ash
over the magma of the plain
scattered, curled
lisping in the blow
shrieking as they touch
and dying as they wait.
posted by grog at 9:42 PM
1 Comments:
Wow, this poem makes me want to lay out in the plains and feel the pieces of paper blow over my being. This is so real, so vibrant, wow.
Truble
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