The Nail

Into days I thought
Would never come again
Through the stone gate
Where the black thread lies
Where the old tongue lives
Deep in the socket
Of one closed eye.
I am on a road
Which only I can determine
Dragging the yellow kite
That Icarus for winged purpose
Tore, searching for the nail
That once upheld the sky.

 
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ENIGMA

It begins as it always begins when the mind has blown itself astray, below the bruised ashtray of New York, New York headlines where– at the top of a Bushwick Fire Escape as a matter of fact– a pigeon pecks at his post, at a... Continue →