Spring came and went without the notation of the flowers
And still I laid beneath the covers until the sickly sweet heat of June
Ran its sticky, sprite-like fingertips down my nose; whispered ivory tower
Dreams into my unlistening ear, and yet I only cried, "Too soon!"
-
rm
YOU ARE READING
semi-permanent
Puisia collection of poetry "Let this evening be the next piece of fabric you/stitch onto the dwindling threads of time" (from "it's late") (RM 2022-2023)
