 |
|
|
|
August's thick sweat Lifts an arm, puckers An elbow. The face A precipice for words: Fall from the precipice, Little cries, and see, Growing smaller And farther, the tight Crease in each cheek, The range of teeth Like Tetons. Turn it Over, and we'll spy The doctor's guess: Chubby legs a minefield of indentation. But time escapes us: we Will know the answers only when we have the evidence before us (better to be buried alive than deadened by unfulfilled hope). posted by Reen |link| 0 comments |