(no subject)
Fleshy stalked roses grow in rows
outside the house in which my lover lives.
Blue soft veins crawl up the wrists,
and end their length in the fingers
of my loved one.
The dog, whose name I long ago forget,
snored deeply in her sleep;
while birdcalls kept my writing hand awake-
like train tracks, this never tires:
writing poems about the one I love.
outside the house in which my lover lives.
Blue soft veins crawl up the wrists,
and end their length in the fingers
of my loved one.
The dog, whose name I long ago forget,
snored deeply in her sleep;
while birdcalls kept my writing hand awake-
like train tracks, this never tires:
writing poems about the one I love.