morning
my eyes are
my eyes are
wooden spoons
that beat on the doors of sleep all night
wishing a dream would let me in
wishing a dream would let me in
|
& the blue numeral flowering in the neigh
palm of 3 am is also & also not a rose midnight breaks
out in hives noon in hexagrams the noun lies in her unmade bed with i & eye & hums |
Sophia PandeyaTiny poems. Because you never know which grain of sand will grow a pearl within you Archives
November 2014
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