Tuesday, March 22, 2016

this is

this is
the land
where Indian tribes
embalm carnations
the day's tremulous ink
the red hot rose
adrift
the annals
of the jungle

you stretch out
softer than the memory of a blind man
later 
you find me
and become the rough city
that seals my mouth
you explore time like alcohol
doubts,
those orphan airs
you exhale,
arise from doubts


my only fortune
the booty torn from fear

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