In a field of sand the poppies blow;
Over pits touched by ocean flow;
abaft a shade, hidden before some
shut-eye sun; And after a leveled shore,
Some petals show like crows on corpse.
And the moon, Oh how it stares down at us:
Like a half cut, half fallen birch tree.
We cry to such birch foliage:
That thirst these warm tears from us.
Darling, do you see? How the sea
is envy; it changes from blue to me;
plodding over pounded rocks;
palm to sole, fingers through toes;
Swim back to a reflection of me--
There the poppies follow me.
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
In a field of sand the poppies blow;
Over pits touched by ocean flow;
abaft a shade, hidden before some
shut-eye sun; And after a leveled shore,
Some petals show like crows on corpse.
And the moon, Oh how it stares down at us:
Like a half cut, half fallen birch tree.
We cry to such birch foliage:
That thirst these warm tears from us.
Darling, do you see? How the sea
is envy; it changes from blue to me;
plodding over pounded rocks;
palm to sole, fingers through toes;
Swim back to a reflection of me--
There the poppies follow me.
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