1141
15.ii.23
4.46
ave
for ghost
writing
a kind of innocence they play
creature all tail
strikes trod upon
blind deaf
as from a dreaming sleep
there is always an out
under over
so shaped as none worry
these are unbelievers also
light catches dust to show
crumbs of star
some vile smell only remembered later
time comes to us all
borrowed sometimes
we honour the gone to know
there isn’t a name survives
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.