?

Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

An experimental Swadesh poem

Birds

Say, under the full green moon,
What lies in your breast, or caps the horn of the goat, or both.
The greased feather, that spreads the blood
Dies before the head from which it is plucked.
But the bird's claw still points
From a smoked round foot.

Profile

work
gothwalk
The Wizard of Duke Street
The Wizard of Duke Street
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Lilia Ahner