You, Doctor Martin

. . . Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.