i dream what to write. a sunny paragraph about an african day in the hills. dust on the road. words repeat themselves from long times gone by. nothing is new. not the sun, especially not my lines. light dictates the picture for me. but my lids are weary. i want to submerge with a slow crocodile, eyes softly buoyed, let those smells write themselves. post themselves somewhere else. but i want to be here. i need to be near. my words. being gifts to me, they are surprises. or should be. or should they? is that a problem?
stifled paper-shrieks
slithery razzle-dazzle
this sterile word love
seasofme081117
YOU ARE READING
that japanese poetry
Poetrya place for all that japanese poetry i love so much and plan to write lots of 221017 - (and suddenly this is not only a japanese poetry collection anymore)
