Three
swallows from the tail-end of a bottle; I am anxious to slide the
face from the clock. To close the hands of a grasping past or a
future on repeat.
The sheets are cold, they are always
cold until I wake in a fury of sweat and the cheap stench of booze.
Dreams still raw itch in this uncertain consciousness.
That last kiss was a punch in the
teeth, a necessary violence, something beyond symbolic. Your lips
were blunt and smeared with meaning. What demon were you trying to
instill or exorcise? Even in this I fell short and only bled as the
door hung motionless in the silence.
It is February and the neighbor's
bottle brush plant insists on turning green. Pushing through the dead
of last year
.
No comments:
Post a Comment