Words
form tight
and wild curls,
like the hair of
my father, or jesus, they
stumble from my lips and leap
into anxious air. I don’t know what
face they’ll wear until they are long gone.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
Words
form tight
and wild curls,
like the hair of
my father, or jesus, they
stumble from my lips and leap
into anxious air. I don’t know what
face they’ll wear until they are long gone.
