Donnee
March 8, 1993
How strange to have a poem bubble to the surface of a cold page, rising by itself out of nothing but the words' own cage of breath. Serene. Not love, nor rage prints itself upon the empty sheet, like the dream.
How strange to have a poem bubble to the surface of a cold page, rising by itself out of nothing but the words' own cage of breath. Serene. Not love, nor rage prints itself upon the empty sheet, like the dream.