I spend my nights in a noisily quiet room with four unmatched couches and seven portholes.
I nick my fingers on these chiclets and bleed papers.
I sit atop this beached submarine and shower in sunsets while I watch the words of this blind poet .
I breathe as he builds verses.
My inhalations are formulaic.
I sigh kennings. I journal in asyndettic
(
Read more... )