Inside the sun I hide my hands
and burrow down my face
Close eyed holiday mind
has died to thought, to care
to want
but to shuffle slowly always
edging toward the sun
When motion is removed
from thought, we glide,
we edge,
close to heat, to light
to sun.
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this is about the place under your watch that never sees the sun
kind ones' faces
About Me
- Amy McPherson
- Writing is the space that you need to make sense of things. Like gaps between words...not necessary but very helpful.