Thursday, August 19, 2010

Or a paper cut as shallow



As it smells the last page on a book
as exact as the first one.
Like drawn to it. You moth to flame
tell me is it you or is it we.
Like undone, I dog to bone bitting not
barking at these jagged walls
your collar bones. My jaded bones
your treasured pearls. And words
for you in the afternoon. How slow
your iced tea and your periods
and your sinking in as I disappear.