This is confession.
This is the fall, anther at the bower
the tongue-tip lent
to wrist, to pulse
the warp and weft limbs
invent
little deaths at waking-hour.
This is confession.
This is the fall, anther at the bower
the tongue-tip lent
to wrist, to pulse
the warp and weft limbs
invent
little deaths at waking-hour.
