Monday, July 22, 2013


In the early morning, a rupture.
Erases the city, makes it whole.
Where I woke, bedsheets covered in blood,
           wrapped in a deep and disconcerting fog.
                                                Limited in, left
to roam, calloused hands.  Complete
a thought, these things that happen
     where you live.
                            The torn
cellophane a key indication,
how language charged with meaning can
Found out, form more.
         Another directive.

No comments:

Post a Comment