luni, 7 decembrie 2009


I hate to linger on this lip
This no-land that easily puckers
The tightening that awakes my grand-fear
My nature has not yet been acquainted
With instinct
Nor has it ever derived pleasure from milk
Although I owe my teeth to it
A sturdy prole – my being still
The letters I have learnt to tag kitchen jars with
Did little to remove the metal
From the delights of eating
The sweating man who wears a smeared cap
Pushes the handle bars inside the steel blue
His stare having lost edges
I fear
I fear becoming once again
My stitches interrupted

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