the
pulseweb emerging
from
a lizards wave-gaze
connects
a hand
with
a mountain
and
the road home
becomes
bearable
angel-envelopes
pass
through
a red velvet room
with
the death-thorns
of
our third person being
we're
sketches
drawn
in dew
by
dew
and
we run down
the
windows of a butterfly-sphere
sometimes
it's
only by prayer
the
granite river
will
run
pulsvævet
der kommer ud
fra
et firbens bølge-syn
forbinder
en hånd
med
et bjerg
og
vejen hjem
bliver
udholdelig
englekuverter
går gennem
et
rødt fløjlsværelse
med
vor tredjepersons
dødstorne
vi
er skitser
tegnet
i dug
af
dug
og
vi løber ned ad vinduerne
i
en sommerfuglesfære
nogle
gange
er
det kun ved bøn
at
granitfloden
vil
flyde
Like. Especially the sketches. Wish I had written that!
ReplyDeleteYou're too kind, Hazel!
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