Constriction

There is a sort of person, I suppose, who becomes
Smaller over time, his universe, at first, assumed
To be so large as those described in books, in
Conversation, huge and seamless place, recedes,
And shrinks, and, with it, does the man until
He is its only life, a bluish thing, which suffocates
Because it has no air.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 24 times
Written on 2010-03-07 at 16:13

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text