— POEM 𝒃𝒚 Poul Lynggaard Damgaard
I hold the skin against my own hands.
The bread bleeds around a neck.
Here there are a thousand phones,
but not enough phones for everyone.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 ᒪIᑎGO ᒪE᙭IᑕOᑎ
An Online Literary Journal of Translations
I hold the skin against my own hands.
The bread bleeds around a neck.
Here there are a thousand phones,
but not enough phones for everyone.