roman
pastorale
her nomadic hands are riven with wires and coarse as loose rope.
her vertically plaited hair, as is the custom, kept away from the driven eyes.
her lipless confession - a roving hurt from below the bow of her dress.
her hurting shin submits to my hand and i tend to her as she grins with pain.
her face, annointed by the dark, her shadow, burnt into the earth.
her cotton flannel pillow shepherds day into dream.
her country is at nigh, awaiting, pilgrim of the night.
lead me there, and always there i stop, the night thy pasture is, the stars thy flock.
her nomadic hands are riven with wires and coarse as loose rope.
her vertically plaited hair, as is the custom, kept away from the driven eyes.
her lipless confession - a roving hurt from below the bow of her dress.
her hurting shin submits to my hand and i tend to her as she grins with pain.
her face, annointed by the dark, her shadow, burnt into the earth.
her cotton flannel pillow shepherds day into dream.
her country is at nigh, awaiting, pilgrim of the night.
lead me there, and always there i stop, the night thy pasture is, the stars thy flock.