Poems from phantomofthebookstore
He sulks in the sunlight,and breathes smoke in my face.Metal sticks to his skin,so I told him to eatwith his hands.
His voice is not...
Winter.Gnawed by the bite ofHim, the bleached white bonesof the mountains liescattered and torn.
Winter.Clouds, torn like pillowsby His...
The tightrope walker.
Standing tall though he may fall.
Courageous, reckless.
Hair in a tight knot.
Crusty earth under your nails.
The mother of seeds.
Sturdy, knobby pale oaks.
Two columned women.
Soldiers, never marching never standing still.
Two white cans to stand on,
Thick matching...