It is a peculiar
thing reading a
poem—how at first
we stare at it like
a clock—the symmetry
of the lines, how
well they work.
But then, oh and
then when we unscrew
the gold and glass filament of
its face—how little
we knew before, how
little we know then—
ignorance begins.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
It is a peculiar
thing reading a
poem—how at first
we stare at it like
a clock—the symmetry
of the lines, how
well they work.
But then, oh and
then when we unscrew
the gold and glass filament of
its face—how little
we knew before, how
little we know then—
ignorance begins.
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