Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
In a tent I become
simple and quiet
with rice, unoriginal
and worn as a wit
seen twice.
Things I use
in a glass country:
lips for business
and rice for a bed.
in wet asphalt
rice stalks waving.
where am i?
At eve,
By a grass-made hut,
The winds pass on.
Saying something to the rice-plant leaves.
I am knocking at the door of Life, —
Is nobody in?