at the surface
on the icy pane
your breath
melts
drops
of sun
you doubt
and
he
takes
your hand
and lets
you
in
YOU ARE READING
trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
