somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond . . . your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose . . . i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
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