WINTERREISE



In small hours
soft, thick flakes
of snow
drift down
in flurries
trysting on
apple-crisp
air, and trees
aspire
to the blind
south celestial pole,
the revolving signs
shielded by thick
streetlight-gilt cloud.
Alone and so
muffled quiet
I can hear
my thundering
heart catch itself
on the borderlands

of being.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

MAGICAL THINKING: THE OCCULT AND THE PHOTOGRAPHY OF FIONA PARDINGTON

WHY PETER GILDERDALE CAN GET STUFFED

THINKING ABOUT LUKE WILLIS THOMPSON