вторник, 30 юни 2015 г.


i sweep the angles of desire
walking barefoot on the edge of my

i let go as i see 
our silences in tune
(and i clutch even harder to the noise
of our discrepancies)

an ancient rite 
(to be perceived by our attempts
of combing for space in time)
here i am drowning myself
in a creek by the heel of the next tempest

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