Monday, June 16, 2008


The warmth of the night cut open like a ripe fruit. I roll over –
picking moths off the crumpled sky.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

sometimes the warmth of the night is written and read and felt in an internet letter, in a poem, in a blog

About Me

Searching for my place in this world, I keep running from one falling star to another till I drop.

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