y=e

My face is a wall. My face is a piece of lead. My fingers fit this table in perfect crescent contradictions; I am History, spoken. The Sea has passed. The Sea has dried himself to salt and so much foreign land, all terrific motion laying still. We speak of Poetry, who is lost to us. Lost to me. For I am a stone. I am a crevice in your long-forgotten skyline.




feb '10