You have worn your skin
and never asked where it would end.
In rooms made larger by the Old Masters,
your spine also has learned to bend.
The stalk resides inside of you, the joist
fanning through you with the suppleness
of a willow bough.
Don't you know?
The last ink of the day is written with a green pen.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
You have worn your skin
and never asked where it would end.
In rooms made larger by the Old Masters,
your spine also has learned to bend.
The stalk resides inside of you, the joist
fanning through you with the suppleness
of a willow bough.
Don't you know?
The last ink of the day is written with a green pen.
