she said
she had the best
of life
under
feverish
spell
she
noticed
tiny movements
and looking at
the inside of
the forest
time
nightshade
clock striking
ten and
then lush greens
filling her den
in
cold grass
cold dew pools
empty letters
she
revives
herself
on
feverish
waking
I am the only one who can touch her
Maybe
in another place
a seaside cliff,
foamy with tumultuous exaustion
rips itself apart
at the shore
and lute, the
song of saints
echoes in the
walls
oh yes,
you have heard me speak
her life
under
feverish
resignation
and uninhibited
palace of
lost.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 