The Only Fortunate Thing


You have an idea of yourself.
It is a kind of building.

This building stands on the sound
of your heart-beat,
the imaginary width
of rhythm.

All night
it stands there.
On a sound,
an imaginary width.

It is fortunate, really-
really, the only fortunate thing-
that there is no one in the building.





Poetry by Molloh
Read 690 times
Written on 2006-06-27 at 21:04

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