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A trip to the ironing room

A trip to the ironing room
Always ends with a crude discomfort
Whether 'tis my glazing eye that
Turns the infirmary's marshal

Everything's in the right place

Your breathing is smooth
Your heart beats quite slowly
in the purpose of keeping Its strength
The weather is nice

Foreigners

I am trying
my liveliness, when everyone is foreign
and shadowed and unclear
.is nowhere to be found

I squint at poetry

I squint at poetry
The beauty is too soft to bear
.Some days

Last days of June

.Everything is so loud and sharp this days
- The people on the bus are sharp

The Progress of Healing

I grieve my being in this place
Of ornamental gladness
My dying heart was all my health
.My genius was madness

The yarn and the moor

There the painting condoles, then the air is but trite
There a word of life is forever heard;
Where the trees are taller than the light,
And the light is softer than the word