Friday, March 2, 2012

Seven And Thirty Seven Years

And wake up as dry as a book, I
am a hat on the hook beside
and above the bedpost not far
to reach and never forgotten
for long unless you're breathing
through someone else blanketing
them with your leather and your
meat, hands fighting like dogs in
some forever confused battling
waltz whose music is gasping
intercourse and whose conductor is
an animal in your skin who let a
book seduce who let knuckles
cow you who let fingernails
mark you who let spit
scour you who let some
gull feather elevate you to
the most incredibly fleeting
nowhere until you were back
somewhere and with me
under a hat
breathing heavily

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