Thursday, June 06, 2013



O weeping muse                        
you make me fall
into a thick misty river;
the tundra where my poems gather.

…Madness enters with the wind;
the jolt of a wild animal
thrashing from a spasm,
his eyes seek mine.

O my first dead,
which winter squall
carries my disordered pages,
the shroud of tears we will inhabit,
the grave where all spit
their epitaphs?

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