Mirror
星期三 十月 28, 2009 12:59 pm
They say I am more
like Plath than Dickinson.
They say I look more
into you than fire.
Cold, do you agree?
A lake of silence.
Silver and exact,
a dull cell—
they say,
one chooses to be;
the other is swallowed in.
I carry you to seek
seeds of sunflowers
and the tiny heart
of a hummingbird.
Now you settle here—
rains fall on you,
wings towards sunlight.
