So full of half-filled shapes
Fit to bursting with inchoate
Longing for a moon
That is no moon
Just a harbour-thin reflection
On a rippled dinner plate
I could
Sew these ragged dreams to riches
But such half-spun mists
Hang much too soft
To carry all my future-weight.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
After a busy day when confronting admin
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