Tuesday, October 26, 2010


As yor my main pericardial rub,
I don’t listen to my own deep peril.

In taming me, by fashion of a hub,
There’s nothing left in life that’s safely feral.

Potential space can only be a cave
when queen is one in gawd with courtly knave;

You trace a paradox of my body
and bring the sounds that situate me, oddly.

"For you, Jan"

1 comment:

  1. uhmm, i also received this "lov epoem" from you, W. Care to explain? Are you pushing me away?