Mar 2016
Your poems leave
a trace of a breath
stirring hairs
on the back of my neck,
a shifting of weight,
quiet, implacable
creak of springs,
footsteps,
a pause
footsteps
a door closing.
a trace of a breath
stirring hairs
on the back of my neck,
a shifting of weight,
quiet, implacable
creak of springs,
footsteps,
a pause
footsteps
a door closing.
