Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Black Field II

What I forgets to leave
Here and what I forgets
It is here not home to itself

Like bodies the fan whirs
In the room a metaphor
Or something for conscious

ness this voice around
The air is something you
Swear to this that you will

Be you to me so this darkness
Where I must imagine your
Touch is more than me

Or you this discourse of
The senses more than any
thing one amounts to.

No comments: