The mud is such a soft bed is what she said.
She knew and I found out beneath the orange
flowerbed of the stars. The wolf was red,
killing and killing us, we slept. He cringed.
Her blood was thin with aspirin, her teeth
full of green drums. Though she was ragging,
I pinned her to the wall, telling by her breath
she needed it. Cereal through a straw
is all you can sip through a broken jaw.
Like pressing a flower in Shakespeare’s book
Your mouth only says what your bones can cook.
There’s reams of rhyme that surge from your scrawl
If you bend your eyes white and learn to look.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment