Younger now--
Winking-wards-back-
-Never feeding satchels
With broken thumbs.
Slightly sniffing-
Sorrows in--
Decrepit hand-bags,
The silence is short.
And supposing day-beings
Are breaking evenings,
For nights that always come.
We know attics; see-how
Detached I am.
That boldness of single
Salmon-sand.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Younger now--
Winking-wards-back-
-Never feeding satchels
With broken thumbs.
Slightly sniffing-
Sorrows in--
Decrepit hand-bags,
The silence is short.
And supposing day-beings
Are breaking evenings,
For nights that always come.
We know attics; see-how
Detached I am.
That boldness of single
Salmon-sand.
