With its black strokes, singing,
it smears me, lavish.
I’m the night’s white canvas
turbulent and stiff.
I can grab the stars in my hand.
They burn but I can’t let them loose.
Issue: Spring 2014 » Poetry
With its black strokes, singing,
it smears me, lavish.
I’m the night’s white canvas
turbulent and stiff.
I can grab the stars in my hand.
They burn but I can’t let them loose.
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