“If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.”
— Michael Ondaatje

Continued...

§77 · January 17, 2011 · Poetry · (No comments) ·


“His flesh, immortal, is shrouded in flames,
and to him, even Death does simply nod,
him who saw the dreams and knew the names.”
— Maximilian Voloshin

Continued...

§14 · December 6, 2010 · Poetry · (No comments) ·