Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

June 26, 2004

the discreet charm of naivete (in process, or,) written into my shoe on Saturday night

We all need hope, that luscious thing
that wakes us every morning, then
betrays that bleeds us beautiful,
and gives that hurt the voice to sing
again. Then there's the music of
the well-fed voice, canary bright
and hopeless, unhurt, a purse of
coins that don't know how not to ring.
(Naivete fulfills itself,
to others' sting...)

Posted by Delire at June 26, 2004 07:28 PM
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