Crawl from the master of the blues
The four fingered guide will point a way
Fingers stretched straight as a tool
Fool, fool, do not let.
Your breath will not leave
your nostrils. Lap at it
At morning, at evening, at night, no,
at day at day at day
For what day?
The black milk that breaks the day.
Scuttle, under the sun's geometric shadow,
And do not stop scuttling,
For one day you will sniff at day, every day, for
Now, through your frozen tears, together with
you, under the sun's geometric shadow
All that guides me and an angel you, are these
Red flakes of snow, black milk, and
a sunken carnival moon at day.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
