The moon seems close,
seeps down onto grey blocks
of lawn and field,
washes out their contrast.
The trees are still,
they've nowhere to go.
I am breathing at the window,
resting there a while,
telling myself
I am resting there.
I am close,
rubbing upon the rise and fall
of the air in me at night,
that is beneath the names
spoken by the king of light.
No comments:
Post a Comment