Buchdetails
Beschreibung
map their way through the palms of your hands,
words dripping like dream
from your No ceremonies pounding
No holiness here
No ghosts to round up,
only an occasional choppy This is autumn.
The witching bird has flown
The highways are all deserted if you
look There is nothing here
to save or
to fear.
Sometimes it is best
to simply let a wound bleed.