Monday, April 09, 2012

The strange place of my story

Later still
I think up strange stories
Which grow in the ingles of the night
Shy of the raucous sun
and all but one face

A mosquito in my thoughts
Drawing me out of my slumber
With minute intention
And nowhere to land

Between the palms of my hands
Is an inner world
Whose creatures go about their commerce
I am a tourist amongst them

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