jeudi, janvier 05, 2012


They press invisible on me


The smell of unwished desire

Is cloying

A manly hunger for love



sometimes fills the air around me insistent.

No Lady Macbeth I

No knife at hand

I do not cut

Or kill

And yet

I am repelled.

For pining bespeaks weakness

Cloud-topped castles

Fleet dreams

Cold rain

Secretive dark touch

And so, what'er befall us

You and I who count our words

The strict currency of candor

I will not pine

For you.

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