The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve...
1 мин.
59
английский
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. On their blotter of fog the trees Seem a botanical drawing — Memories growing, ring on ring, A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery, Truer than women, They seed so effortlessly! Tasting the winds, that are footless, Waist-deep in history —
Full of wings, otherworldliness. In this, they are Ledas. O mother of leaves and sweetness Who are these pietàs? The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.
