A bright-wet afternoon
the shape of shoulders, and, next week:
fun with nails.
We clasp hands amongst the operas and the accounts of other feelings
we check our cheeks to see if there is anything there, left intact,
but, after that, we meet ourselves coming in from the rain for a drink.
The palm blazes with the thinking of it
a pose that supposes it's holiness
what do we see, now that night has fallen?
1 comment:
Great!
I missed this blog!
I`m always glad to come back here!
Anita Mendes.
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