Dreams are the waters of the city. In pristine
whiteness, the great margins are accessible only to
the cold. We do not shout at the first enemy who
happens to come our way. But we, as a child growing,
take care of the little ones. My head
feels full of desert sand. I have been living
in a green house. We do not have an ending for the
first steps we missed, as we cross
over another bridge
into the heart of montreal.
-published in Poetry Offerings.
No comments:
Post a Comment