it was somewhere before Astoria,
where you only needed to lift you chin
to point out where
we ought to go.
this old fashioned face
broke midnight with a light
that is only seen in pictures
of childhood birthdays
and perfect first communions.
under this quiet western sun
i waited in only
woolen stockings,
allowing the field mice
to swim beneath
my curled chest.
i knew children
would have walked
the state if you lifted a hand
and promised it was safe.
still, i waited
broken thighs in october
leaves, when the grass was ripe
and the grapes still green.















Comments
--
if nobody speaks of remarkable things, how can they be called remarkable?
--
~lsh
//
I'll count the days till my dreams take over...
if i wrote drunk poems like this i would be a very happy drunk.
anyways, wow with the field mice bit. i mean seriously. you should have a book because i would read it often.
--
I itch & pain all over
with hate of time &
tedium Save me!
Kill me!
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