There is a little birdbath in the park.
There is a little birdbath in my heart,
all marble with waters still untouched.

One, two, three belfries blossom in sound
and I still wait to smell your colors,
taste your thoughts, yet you unwind into yarn,
strings spilled in the air, while I sweat on
the weaver’s loom, getting your image wrong each time.

Your fag, ( Read more... )

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