Fleeting; in the long faced evening
A cockroach rattles between cracks
Searching for perfume
On a curling path, if drawn in with
Needle tip, resembles the unraveling
Of hair pushed against
The embankment of shears; a sullen
Thread to lower the hollow stones in
Your pounding chest.
Comments (3)
you know, the first few lines made me think of eliot’s “love song…”
kind of sad and existential and universal
Golly, one of my favorite poems by Eliot. By anyone. Ever.
i second that.
if there was ever a poem to read and read again — that would be IT. the godfather of modernist poems, practically.