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Deserted, As a Desirable Dryness

How much more sunshine
can a single hairy-headed

man chant? One more word
to the skies and the blue

has to start to feel
wise. Each ray dies

when it touches the end
of the hand. That is why

I wear gloves. I like to have
these figments alive,

sketched by the fingers
that feed me more

in the way
of words.
Posted byRomanSeptember 22, 2025Posted inPoetryLeave a comment on Deserted, As a Desirable Dryness

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