And when, some day, you tire
of me; and bored,
tear me or cut,
slice or delicately
dice;
you will see,
I'm not flesh and
blood inside but
what you never saw,
what I swallowed with my foolish dreams:
A sodden, broken
rotten watermelon
dripping water
and salt.
On your shoes.
1 comment:
This is my most favourite of your works, Jan. Edges on violence but somehow spells helplessness
Post a Comment