Wednesday, November 27, 2013

The Cracked Harvest

this magic of night and electric chances
stroking my own lips to remember what it is to kiss
I see his face turn, that moment of our eyes meeting
an ovulation of desire

whilst downtown the poetry is torn from the streets
and rough hands try to silence the sound of water
but they forget that it is shapeless
and used to inhabit their own beings when they were children and unformed

these hands of forgetting fix upon the bodies of young girls
who raise sunflowers for the summer sacrifices
the dried blood has not fed the land for the soil is no more
and it is a djinn tree that grows coldly



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