Breakfast: marmalade
or the lion’s mane. Swirl
of sun on dawning gray. Delicacy
of scars a spiderweb across thighs.
Open the door don’t open
the door. Don’t pick up the phone.
Clouds spackle horizon. Island
in the middle of the kitchen bread
crumbs jam smear. His head against window
threatens to break. Orange jelly
in mouth’s creases don’t go up the stairs.
Hanger on white tile hanger
on white thigh. Hair knots back
knots sweat soft material. Windchime
drips rain twirls its long legs
around. His body curled into an S.
His voice I don’t see it anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment