Bleeds-The-Eastern-Sky: Poems & Photographs --- John Oughton | Numéro Cinq
Everything sucks into its event / horizon. Nothing achieves escape / velocity. So, circulating in this hive / of form: the hardest scream / life can draw from your throat, / Lost loves, the scent of flowers / your face was pressed into, unwilling, / The moments you thought death / came next, all the lines you never wrote down. --- John Oughton