POETRY
the sky sleeps in a hammock of night
things are broken constantly, as dandelions
I cant tell what anything is
its something I destroy in absence
as spirits that forget themself
I knit my hands inside nets of sky
where the sky is a quantity of portraiture
then as we to allow this world to do what can be, lions
we are all of unintelligible hearts
and all I have waits inside without you
it suffers as inward motion, herons
in the source for emptiness
in trance before picking up coins of what you know
what is a believing across the sky and into the cave
as memorized details of the watery moon
why, what was it and when
an eagle rising into disambiguation
this is not what death intended for us
so I allow night and then nothing to exist after
by Tom Blood
robust eagle writes:
forward myself onto the comment board
we cover the mirror, somnabulent
until the night sweeps us, eagle
posted Jan 12, 12:41 PM ~
curtis writes:
a terrific poem tom.
posted Jan 16, 04:13 PM ~