of the roses

knowing poets are selfcentred eases the burden of levity. its maxim a code working axiom to brillaint the poacher. the page. a lifted thing rink round dare night and kiss. between thigh and shoulder blade the taste of skin. the crying wreck of love, not war.




peace is between these thing. between radiant importance the crystal bed. she lifted her eye findingheaven's become here between her s and ours.






not I was the sender's stuff. as dreaming worked the pen playing cloud its amber nape the deluxe delight of love.





not inhibtion and its terrible anarchy. nor chains of chaos in the believer's ring.





these and thos e was ring to her very sent.




she heard these things in between the lines .




not

anything but



perfect love in its coming .



not judgement or refinement .