Sunday Morning Itís the loose grooves slow fingers, gently sinking even further into sleep, swaying soft rain drumming against a window pane, with no feeling to go, we stay in bed. Stuck in candlelight, warm breath stirring in musty air and reflections from a muted TV in the corner playing background music of a violent and lonely world outside. Thereís no need to rush we can go together with fingers that touch the word... forever. We can go anywhere.
Eric Tang's Questions:
This is one of my few happy poems. I like it a lot, but, the
last 5 lines bother me. I don't know, it seems like they just don't fit
for some reason, not exactly the meaning but the language used. Let me
know what you think.