Windmills of salt voices draw in
the darkness; Voices of a world that
become the has of an eye; The has
of the eye that home tricks.
Showing posts with label poem by Gene Myers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem by Gene Myers. Show all posts
Thursday, August 2, 2012
A conscientious moon launders all assertions…
“Help me create….”
Is there really such a thing as nightsilver illness?
What about the white and of at convictions?
At convictions, the wine moon surfaces willfully.
Willfully…
The white piece of paper…
The poem…
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