Showing posts with label poem 19. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem 19. Show all posts
Another Year
The year is done the year is not yet done,
gingham, the shell which I resent
having to dress; which fabric flows for
which event I'd prefer if it hangs stiff
in the breeze, I can't countenance holidays
no-one throws themselves all in
anyway, is it a miracle I'm open to if not
looking for joy and could I also hold joy
waiting in the freezing spit as an equal to
the heat sink I become by June, same face,
same aversion to guilt an islet for myself.
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