Wednesday, July 17, 2013

poem draft

Maybe it was the lock
an opened mouth,
permanent O.
Or Mikey
falling backwards
into the empty box,
beer aloft
not spilling a drop.
The blender,
the pile of clothes,
decayed love still gasping
in the sheets.
The marigold
on my doorstep,
the torn picture,
the clicking in my middle
when you run back
to serpent me
in the street.
Starburst of forearm
admissions on crossed legs
the funk of your shoes,
tear in the suitcase.
Or that Sunday
when Leonard Cohen came on
and you outwept the speakers;
you turned my chest
into lake
and my heart couldn't swim
so bloated she drifted
dark on bottom
and nobody
for her body.

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