One ascends gently. Ash falls. A single red feather fattens on the cliff. The bland lake of interior discourse.
Who no longer reads me bleeds me in dreams. What rough angel sent me toppling into the nether? We wither on vines of our own making. I cannot - cannot - undo the dream of kisses.
Well, stories. Makeshift apologies that run down by the garage. Stalkers abound. In the morning, walking, I shiver because I never wear the right coat.
The old blight passes by. Poems sift upward. I consider again the virtues of lying. If when I open the mailbox you are not there smiling I will wilt, I will die. Like that.
Like fat congeals on the onion soup. One never talks anything through. The needle falls to the floor and the widow gives up ever sewing again. You stone in my shoe, you fault line.
No comments:
Post a Comment