Wednesday, September 18, 2013


When the wolves recede from paradise, for a moment,
and take time to lick the sugar of their wounds,
and you let me into the honey of your torso
to forget what I will never remember,
remember what I will never forget,
and you bring the budding mouths
together to pause an apocalypse,
I watch from a girlish bedroom,
I watch from a half-open kitchen
you preparing the three hundred pounds
of redness, the hammock of the sky's counter-pull,
and the busted opulence we will become
when the shells have softened into flower
and straight lines of stringed instruments
have broken, arabesqued.

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