Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

November 04, 2004

A River Running Faster


I have found this little space
Within chaos
To take as my own.
Where the night radiates lemon-like,
Melting into pools lambent as the insides of pumpkins
And shimmering in the chill fall leaves.
A grey-brown branch, smooth as a swallow's belly,
All lit with burnished demons on fire in the night
Black green as oceans.
Myself, beneath a knitted hood:
Large bluebird eyes flitting
Over great smudges of grey


Posted by Delire at November 4, 2004 06:29 PM
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