9.17.2011

one of my favorite poems

"Definitions" - Eduardo Langagne

She is made like the things I love.
She looks like the night,
or better yet: an absence less night.
She is exact:
When night drips, her body gets wet.
She allows me to climb through my tremors,
and stir her name from the darkness:
She is irrepeatable.
She was born in the stones where my mess begins.