the last altered man, the cathedral drips upon
and rends his knotted hands to dirt, their attitude undrawn.
his are eyes flew’d hours to sleep, he is kept
the blessed meek. while i stand graveyard watch —
the statues all asleep.
poem: whoever
Skip to content
i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 