Wylder
inquisitive
in a world where tears bleed,
because few can winnow
sorrow from blood.
i’m skilled at reading
the swoopfonts of bats.
to touch a stump
yields circuitous crowns.
my masseuse wields such fingertips,
lilts of pine needles, myriad in breeze--
swerves of strum across
my naked curvatures.
when the drunken moon
scrabbles in torn skies,
(what a moody show)
my soles whiffle and jar
near the bed of dawn.
such a magus in a cocoon,
aloft in unstable bliss,
petals unfurl around me,
exposing themselves
to the last rose.
but the ribs below them,
these i will not touch.
cages of bone, starved for breath,
never again to wake sensitive.
==========================
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment