proximoception (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
proximoception) wrote2011-11-07 12:39 am
proximoception) wrote2011-11-07 12:39 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
No, I never move from where it's dry
Here in this wicker chair beneath the eaves.
Wet leaves, wet stabs, wet everyones blow by.
I know that in the alley there the leaves
Now make a ramp that ends three meters high.
I know the hidden door beneath receives
Such shy knocks that they'll never wake reply.
I feel the shingles, dark until they shine
And treetops that the high rains undefine.
The drier that I get the more I know.
I see the people, how and where they go.
Behind the walls, upstairs, each with a glow
That doesn't have to reach my eyes to show
The wickedness they leave half done for shame,
The love that can't remember why it came.
Here in this wicker chair beneath the eaves.
Wet leaves, wet stabs, wet everyones blow by.
I know that in the alley there the leaves
Now make a ramp that ends three meters high.
I know the hidden door beneath receives
Such shy knocks that they'll never wake reply.
I feel the shingles, dark until they shine
And treetops that the high rains undefine.
The drier that I get the more I know.
I see the people, how and where they go.
Behind the walls, upstairs, each with a glow
That doesn't have to reach my eyes to show
The wickedness they leave half done for shame,
The love that can't remember why it came.
no subject