I hear your hands against the door.
I will write about
self-enclosure.
My brother is playing guitar
in the attic with
invisible strings;
the night becomes
a terrible universe.
My father reads his Bible
breaking
mythical ground;
the extinction of the body
is as inevitable as
struggle.
The sound of wolves clawing
at the door; I write about
the
language of death, how
beautifully it hunts for silence.
There are windows
to every soul;I
pass through mine while my mother
waits
barefoot in the kitchen
for the
bread to rise.
beautifully it hunts for silence' and especially the ending.
Post a Comment