I've got to write of "indian wealth",
fill in all the blanks. There are
your screams of lines
and subtle burnings
then there are the rosaries
in your murdered choir,
a shelter I prayed in as the rain
played tin. My eyes were ravens then,
foggy feathers in your hands.
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2 comments:
beauty.
I pulled up to the curb and saw an old women carrying a coffee mug,
the mug had a kitten on it,
the kitten was holding a ball of yarn,
the yarn was yellow.
She bent over and picked up a cigarette butt,
and put it in the mug.
She was wearing blue on her eyes and pink on her cheeks.
I smiled at her,
she kind winked back.
And then she kicked my car.
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