You have a penchant for self-devotion. You have a habit of dining on stars.
How many bears have you kissed? How many whale sharks?
The light in your last book, was it stolen? Did it waltz here on tiptoe and glass?
Step forward where we can't see you. Try to seem taller.
When did you begin to hoard silence? You have bent wings on your lips.
You covet sleep. You have the ears for it.
Where have you left your sensible watch? Why saturnalia?
So many words, when none would do.
How would you like to be buried: in print, in debt, under which medals?
Who will cast your shadows for you then?
Who will we stand under and curse?
What flowers will grow from your blood?
18 November 2013 15:08 hours