there are words in me always there blood is at my lips
****** burning
to release
the distillation of their sting
into such sweet pollen
a whole garden might
from them stagger
into finite blithe
smoothly muslined
night
crocus poppy thistle
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
there are words in me always there blood is at my lips
****** burning
to release
the distillation of their sting
into such sweet pollen
a whole garden might
from them stagger
into finite blithe
smoothly muslined
night
crocus poppy thistle
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