The few lines of your neck wear you down
like the sodden robe of your last miscarriage.
I am undulant and endeavoring your inner tube delicacies.
On 7th Avenue the cat thinks it must be in heaven
or else why would it be smiling?
Why would it be pawing the suburban subconscious?
And since we are alone, Love,
in our dreams, your contumely umbrella
has hidden you amid the vast oceanic waves.
I’ve flagged you down so we could shake hands.
Like an unhealthy child or a shallow reservoir,
I’ve swam a bit unsteady over the shoals,
squandered my stocking stuffers,
losing a little luster, but also the debris of doubt.
I won’t be much longer in this crawl space.
My landscape, mostly the curve along your chin line
up to your rhododendron eyeliner.
But it is late, it is almost night fall,
and in the sad demure of rain we raise the toasting glass
to speak anecdotally of this young prince.
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