Monday, March 26, 2012


Muddied stars seeking beds
not of our own making, but
hern who brung us—

We cling to her arm
with no future, evaporating.

Unworried, Matrix smiles
wide through saloon doors
swinging open, a special delivery

Of that wine moving us like old dogs
on hot afternoons

Shaded, digging these dancing particles
coming and going, hewing
peculiar, lust-laden odysseys
amid the sun beam in our room
with the sound of clocks winding

A tic toc ending
to a day unwound,
yet alarming—

Wearing faces
that no longer conceal our oceans
but reveal them

No comments:

Post a Comment