the boughs split themselves into webbed fingers,
that jut into the sky, piercing
the waning breaths of the night, when the yolky sun
cracks itself upon a dusky rim,
to drape gently upon the
soft flesh of the earth
YOU ARE READING
tyrants
Poetrythe kind of love i've been dreaming of 2018 - 2023 #29 in poetry, 2nd april 2023 #56 in prose, 23rd may 2019 #16 in non fiction, 6th april 2023
hiver
the boughs split themselves into webbed fingers,
that jut into the sky, piercing
the waning breaths of the night, when the yolky sun
cracks itself upon a dusky rim,
to drape gently upon the
soft flesh of the earth