the number is loud. in that quiet way it often is. Secondary and patient. Like the stutter of graves as the grass grows over them. happiness in twigs and twine. Eyeliner and rouge. The pale cheeks of god moist with the semen of Satan.
It's only math because I've been counting. How far we've come.
Her breasts. The lock. Trembling with the keys. The needle. Nervous ghosts. Steal her feet. The end of the worl chssing the beginning.
The tepid math of liars and friends. Counting backward from when.
she listens with her legs. Determined to run faster.
Monday
4/30/2012 12:31:00 AM
| Life Poems |