--- C H R I S M A R T I N
"this man is as is a man" losing what he meant to have arrived at—berries torn in alabaster, the two minutes while you wake beside him, a silent bird full of black feathers. He wants what is impossible to misplace. Your face, his fingers at your waist.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |