Nanne Sinclair |
My head is empty
My eyes suck a red noodle of light
I lick the strawberry clouds of dawn
A rose called compassion,
Thorns, desire, a soul fired,
A burn with no blister to cushion hurt
Like a wagon running with no tyres
Crushing the road and creating sparks,
An electric storm radiates a blue glow of warmth
Multiplies for a picosecond
As love’s insight shafts.
I hug the solid trunk of gravity
Remembering.