Drooloops on a sordid summer noon, through eve
Rock walls. Wicket gates. Daisy on the fence. Coarse loaves. Blunt knives. Porcelain soups. Demure looks. Lone chair. Shoulders droop. A stew turns cold. The moon nibbles away, making a furrow through heart. Shears the sheaves off corns. Daiseyed, is turned at will by its stalk. Moondrops from her eyes. Sits astride by the swamp and rides you full, to the lees.
The city, where music merely peps up food/foreplay, where heels make pugmarks among the marsh, twigs prop fishnets in gloom, slouching in guilt. The same sun looks fresh on one, fervid on the other. Love chimes with Sunday morning's grace, the way she tucks you in for one more hour of sleep. Days with tea-caked ends, when cakes and flowers pleased a maiden fair. Bells rang...
Alternate and true.
Punctuated
A comma in mother's womb
An exclamation mark out of it
A semicolon -- avoiding fullstops and thus
Bending backwards in life
many times over
And a perfect underscore... in death.
No comments:
Post a Comment