A poet’s words,
melt the sky’s
still tongue.
With a memory,
and tremble of touch.
I’m still the hunter,
for your taste
and eyes of absence.
Pecked by the birds,
but still milling
our carefree hopes.
A thousand quivers
A poet’s words,
melt the sky’s
still tongue.
With a memory,
and tremble of touch.
I’m still the hunter,
for your taste
and eyes of absence.
Pecked by the birds,
but still milling
our carefree hopes.
A Wandering Poet 