To the wind
you were the same at both ends.
There is no core.
Encumbered in a dream, you sleep in tissue:
this thin, skirted apparatus
palming the rucksack of the mind.
When silent is is smooth and oblong;
it must survive winter, the pelting snows.
Speak and the barrel fills
bubbling, fermented.
It is yourself you are drinking.
You have all the names.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 11:17 AM UTC
To the wind
you were the same at both ends.
There is no core.
Encumbered in a dream, you sleep in tissue:
this thin, skirted apparatus
palming the rucksack of the mind.
When silent is is smooth and oblong;
it must survive winter, the pelting snows.
Speak and the barrel fills
bubbling, fermented.
It is yourself you are drinking.
You have all the names.
