"bayrakdar" poems
There is a space.
A space
which sleeps between
this seeping becoming
of words
and bristling grass
of afternoons
the space which hits
this auditorium of dark
flecked light of time
with fingernail tallies
and the hanging gift
outside
I wear the promise of my skin,
I am the numb of numbers -
In silence there's no breath
for questions.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC