before you pass beneath the lamplight
mark the moon's violet edges
bleeding into the clouds,
suffusing your used smoke with wisps of blue,
lighting my teeth not with longing
but with a faint plea:
forget me, but come again to this bench
where our thighs have splintered,
our tongues have split,
and our hands spread starlight
though the cabernet dark
striking like winecups & smashed in the instant
No comments:
Post a Comment