and
your fire blazing
at the white dot of sleep
reason
snuffed out
in the luggage left
at the foot of the pier
rain
watching the dance
carved out of
this balmy night
YOU ARE READING
trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
