Little one, pale-cast,
You were, once,
In the Cambrian
When the waves crashed on
Stones still unsmoothed by time’s hands,
Now you are
Poetry still breathing, but
Inside the stone.
I saw you, once,
Your last wake was a
Trill of tents perched above your grave.
May 23, 2008 at 4:43 pm |
that reminds me of sylia plath’s ‘you’re’!!!
May 23, 2008 at 4:43 pm |
oops sylvia. bellepoq le tired. i love plath! don’t worry i am not suicidal.