Clay-pots

A little girl dances her song,
She junior to all our senses.
Bodies are ripe in old music,
Spheres make in their ears.

Their ears are yellow leaves.
Their fall is imminent music.
Bodies are clay-pots with holes,
Like flutes with finger holes.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poems.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s