The falling poem was
in bruising gamble of winter
of troubled life,
bound to a staircase:
up and down
up and down,
on the rosette of grieving thighs.
From sunset to sunset
a moon rises in all its glory
as the night flows in crevices of thoughts.
Will you lift the veil from the golden face
and sacrifice the lamb?
The infinite was waiting to come out of crotch.
My book of poetry is being redone by me, I have a beautiful cover designed and the book will have a few more than 200 poems in it. I am going to have it printed on demand here in Canada. When it is done I will let you know when it is done and if anyo
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