Room 191

January 8, 2017

I, lying on grass,
suddenly stiff, deathsure, my hands clasped,
am stone on womb,
an omphalos for these minor heights
not devoid of saints; alone
under alone, a landmark for bumblebees,
am lantern for your shadow
wheezing uphill, in color, your eyes smiling;
there is a fright
in trees’ tricks, in their parliament: is
that why crosses
nail the land, nail myself to the land?


2 Responses to “Room 191”

  1. Rainer Says:


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