The man whose body dump
we didn’t see appears sometimes,
holding the bedstand stares
at us. What! I ask.
His mouth is ours, shut.
His eyes open, run
a late night news-strip.
The man whose body dump
we didn’t see appears sometimes,
holding the bedstand stares
at us. What! I ask.
His mouth is ours, shut.
His eyes open, run
a late night news-strip.
I am not a silent poet 
Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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Reblogged this on Words Surfacing… and commented:
An unseen work
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