Outside the war
we simmer in July
playing with sparks and pigment
fire and grease and heat
with aphrodisiacs
split lobster tails that lay
like hearts after a rapture,
with songs that press
against the hollow harbor womb
and die at sea, forgotten,
and silently, we note
the war
as outsiders do, and rub
against the night like
static on a tar balloon.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment