Tuesday, June 12, 2012

sonnet one hundred fifty

argued tenderness bruising
the night, singing to an
unwritten note, a piece
of light crawls inside

my head, playing with the
vision of skies and sunflowers,
picking apart sorrows and
miseries like they would

expire and die the next,
i pull out, from the edge of
our recollection this one

beginning, solitary and afire,
perfumed by desirous, wounding,
familiar intimacies.

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