Prayer Desperate

Whenever I saw
your soul
in the white snow:
legs
spread for love

The beggarly angel
of the fir tree
picks by handfuls
our shadows
no my God
kind of scared

The sun is rising
with the dullness
of  Medusa’s
chopped off head

The last series of Paradise
is being run on the telly

The exile
with blood
more skittish
than the last candle
in the blind yolk
of the dark



2000

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