It pours as I type,
black it is outside
night and wishes
in remembering
all that was falling.
Be it radio waves
lyrics harvested
picked as peaches
or corn or chestnut
coking over hot coal.
The core burst in some
pops, but not like the
wonder-bra,
of a seasoned poetess.
Following - whoosh, whoosh.
Scraping new home corners
Bremen full with "I know!"-
that one, very well,
loving him can not fail,
all moments as gemstones
only our privacy derails.
/
-- we speak, we write, what we perceive, what we just might. Silence is never a relative.
/
Thourn Whaul
060720
