The way it happens

by June 26, 2009 0 comments

To feel it,
to grasp your heart
and to die while you write
poetry
is not so regally like let’s say
kissing untouched beauties
between the sheets.

to listen to Mahler
and after that to throw away
all the symphonies like
garbage.

Summer time,
I kiss the hog
and whisper
good night, darling, good night
child.

Leave a Reply