Wednesday, March 23, 2011

death in translation

my voice is the knife that cuts
nights viscous surface
a brightness that reveberates
in the red shift of stars
and slides along the livid belly of the moon.

a breath of syllables.
whispers in the hallway of
dreams waiting
from the White Sea, a dead
language to haunt you

a subsonic heartbeat
of someone too far
away

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