Monday, 5 May 2008


you wound me with the beauties
you scatter seemingly absent-mindedly
across the tattered quilt of my life
(turn but a stone and stir a silver-bladed wing)

why do you wound me so
and not slay me outright?
i cannot bear wounds when i am not true
nor gifts when i am false

every horizon, every splendid-coloured vista
in the soul, burns as it cuts
to the quick between soul and sinew

why do you wound me with your face
when i do not seek it any more?

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