Now I Know Days Of My Hassle Have Begun
A death, which was for us,
by Broughams wheel under the foggy gas lamp,
and resurrecting like pious murderer Raskolikov
– it was denied to him.
He thought to keep on your bosom’s cleft,
spine of poem and turn pages,
on your skin, like spotted clothe,
will shiver warmth of the words.
but winter evening
does not have any hue, while the old garret waits
for the darkness to pounce.
See the inert body of poetry
killed by calculated math sleeping on...