Never were true words Spoken. What is manifest Is illusion. The Real poem is so Indescribably perfect, Just imagine it.
Which way I come, and Which way I go, you don’t know. Only my caress.
I identify with My wobbling dented metal Water bottle now.
I considered it the utmost privilege to spend patients’ last moments on Earth with them. Now that I am in Radiology, I don’t have these
Was your mummy’s tomb Despoiled? Was your sacred Burial plot robbed? We can all agree That mistakes were made. That’s why Pencils, erasers … You
My fingers trace your Sternum as I unbutton Your dress. You shiver. You ask me how long We have before they miss us. I ask