Sunday, July 09, 2017


"The wind lulls in the olive grove"


Giger, Harry.

This antelucan hour knows me not
Though fixed in its stern gaze i blandly dwell.
I had supposed some rescue after all.

Only but lately scrambled out of bed
I yet cannot recall one shred of dreams;
Carry the slow-ebbed memory of white

And sentences the moths fail to complete.
Still there are raging elsewhere fires & crimes
For me to limn, for my small tools to cage;

Ruins that wear a veil of amethyst
We'd stroll among & shape after shape just taste;
Ghosts, & their hard-won, misterioso knowledge...

This antelucan hour knows me best.



Post a Comment

<< Home