poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 21 Jul 2002 | Last Read: 22 May 2013 12:00 PM | Viewed: 36061 times

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