your fogged breath likefingertips on cold glass.
flushed.
the woods slow like
trees reaching sore arms.
upwards.
this morning like
water swallowing sand.
released.
Friday, February 14, 2014
three stanza.
Labels:
Poetry
your fogged breath likefingertips on cold glass.
flushed.
the woods slow like
trees reaching sore arms.
upwards.
this morning like
water swallowing sand.
released.
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