/lit/ - Literature

There’s a light in the wings
Hits the system of strings
From the side, where they swing —
See the wires, the wires, the wires
And the articulation in our elbows and knees
Makes us buckle;
And we couple in endless increase
As the audience admires
And the little white dove
Made with love, made with love;
Made with glue, and a glove, and some pliers
Swings a low sickle arc, from its perch in the dark:
Settle down, settle down, my desire

And the moment I slept
I was swept up in a terrible tremor
Though no longer bereft
How I shook! And I couldn't remember
And then the furthermost shake drove a murthering stake in
And cleft me right down through my center
And I shouldn't say so
But I knew that it was then, or never

Best living poet

>>11170409
>Way to raise an autist by shutting him off from society