I miss my own piece of groundunder the seaunder a fly of the Lord’ssome thin crossmy mind could be like a harpand no hand to suit itshould any religion call melike a ruin of a friendshall death and despair ruleor temper meknowing the time to falland the time to ageto go sleep with the crowsin my hindered land
a window new-painteddo not openprivate garden rosethe language in a laughendless musicbeating a dog to deathfield full of hazesomething broke us baddark doorhe could not find his whipour old candlea way almost to be
such a noble sacrifice the forest madein its battle with the sawit deserves no less than a full plantation of stumpserasers white with chalkerected in loving forgetfulnessof the blackboarda stone tossed into still wateralways lands in the center of a targetof spreading yearshow well we know them thenthese unknown dead
my breath rattledthe pigeons went quietdoors come to be great friendswith the deadI eat my afterselfand depart into storythe coroner will be calledto examine my joy
death and I ate the hourswith full satisfactionat a little place atea six-discourse dinnerat home ate sad newsate a body ate a hearta thin piece of me likelyto contract
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try:
We use cookies
We use cookies to run the site, for analytics, and to personalize ads. Learn more in our Privacy Policy and Cookie Policy.