Thorns Upon The Alien Corn Poem by David Kowalczyk
Thorns Upon The Alien Corn
Rating: ★4.3
Here, in the city of jazz,
the tigers in my dreams
weep neon tears.
I awaken each morning
to the soft moans and
murmurings of the restless dead.
Fine hard snow falls upon the city.
The world strikes
a single note:
C flat..
This has nothing
to do with sex,
or the Kabbalah,
or the nature
of irrational numbers.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: city,numbers,sex
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8/24/2026 4:28:30 AM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
