THE OLD WORD GRINDER Poem by André Schmitz

THE OLD WORD GRINDER



and the mud he has on his eyelids
and the cloud that moves a little in his gaze
and the patched up poem that he clutches in one hand
and the head of a dog that he gropes for with the other
and the woman who is constantly giving birth to him
and the death that is always breathing down his neck

and the ground up words turning yellow between his teeth.

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