My senses are restless,
leashless, giggling, battering, lapping
with echoed smells, tinted with myth.
They pause not at Persephone,
quicker than Hermes.
They whistle palm-ladders for Hermes.
I am chapped with keeping them,
my fingers skinless, I read in Braille,
but when they wind home I leach the world from them,
voracious, vicarious.
No comments:
Post a Comment