Sunday, June 05, 2005

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.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

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.


11:26 PM, June 05, 2005  

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