Monday, April 8, 2013

8/30, an ottava rima


Obsession

Often, I find my eyes searching faces
for the traumas that govern bodies
as I keep to myself, preferring black space
that engenders black space, that which copies
oblivion until I reach wasted
time--until my body feels dead, a clam body,
worn into exhaustion by fear and heartache,
by a yearning that refuses to break.

No comments:

Post a Comment