Poems to Minna - Part 27
Your mind is a little clandestine pastel
Shaped into a posture of rigid grief.
Its brittle colors huddle together
And make a stunted, dryly aching lyric . . . .
Ah frail-flowered moment preceding reality —
Your eyelids open; the little pastel dies.
Shaped into a posture of rigid grief.
Its brittle colors huddle together
And make a stunted, dryly aching lyric . . . .
Ah frail-flowered moment preceding reality —
Your eyelids open; the little pastel dies.
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