Tuesday, June 14


Maybe this is my lot
: these ragged poems & I

If by little little
I imagine something greater

& filled to lips with
day ,I bleach night under

the whisps of my
we’re not done yet fingers

So what if the novel
eludes me(no imagination,no fire

) because these poetic
flickers , pink green brief ,

are company enough
for the closing hours tonight

& all speechless work tomorrow.

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