Whatever thought was slashed short
in the midst of who knows what
there is record of the latest final date
was it another shallow cut
I saw the evidence I left
a knife a glass to feed the sink
and all these lines I left unwrote
some signs of shrapnel on the brink
I could tell tales of nostalgia
a sort of exercise of will
and of a history of tales
that I may well get round to still
No comments:
Post a Comment