Tuesday, February 26, 2013

draft, unfinished

my loves are stacked tracing paper
rubbings of graves from the 1880s
records so loved they blush n dust themselves off
when i go to lift the player’s arm
with trembling pinky

maybe i have watched too many people sleep,
spy drawn lamp shade eyes of REM rolling
the floor drops out and i can see the end,
know it,
restless like tongue’s prison sentence
if this projected splinter posed as a city on map
I could point to it.

my loves.
shelf life different.
how badly wanting was
how translated touch
body hinges
same direction
causing massive collapse of midsection
a slinky moon slice of wet
dead weight
under blanket.

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