Sunday, August 12, 2012

Poem from Red Beard



By Shittopher Nelms




Though the wind
        had been fierce
 that morning and
         had flown
into
her throat like
                       ash,
she had come
   to Koshikawa.
       
 On
a ropemat
       lay a wizened man
                                 whose throat gurgled.

A tallow
        candle
     was almost dripping
                                 to sheathe
the zogan
stand.

No comments:

Post a Comment