I, committed writer
of your body,
a scroll of eros;
you, casual reader
of my face,
a map of solitude.
We screw each other
less in reading
than in writing.
Breadcrumb Scabs, #17
A Room of My Own: Wooden Jesus Tanka
-
slanted sunlight
reaches Wooden Jesus on the cross
I close my eyes
... yet nothing whatever emerges
in my mind or my heart
FYI: This tanka could be read as...