A furnace if I light
A match, a match, a match;
To smoke though your
Babies are both towelled
In, safe
From the stove
Where you have gone
To sleep perhaps your
Final memory was biting
A dashing
Laureate on
His cheek, his cheek, his cheek;
Who you left with a
Scar like a bloody reflection
Of yours
Hazera Bibi
Luton, UK
Monday, April 29, 2002
