Email Poem

Your IP Address: 104.23.243.100

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	This singing is a kind of dying, a kind of birth, a votive candle. I have a dream-mother who sings with her guitar, nursing the bedroom with a moonlight and beautiful olives. A flute came too, joining the five strings, a God finger over the holes. I knew a beautiful woman once who sang with her fingertips and her eyes were brown like small birds. At the cup of her breasts I drew wine. At the mound of her legs I drew figs. She sang for my thirst, mysterious songs of God that would have laid an army down. It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart violent and religious.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required

Member Area