Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Some days

It comes and goes

Like the dull grind in the side of my hips in the morning
skulls bleached in the desert
Like the tobacco snowflakes at the bottom of the bag
Like the newspapers and the books and the love letters hidden from sight
That optimism can't be written anymore
they sit folded in an embarrassing purity
the last virgin words
Like damp rings in cocktail napkins and the eyes from strangers
"So here we are, so here we are"
Like the smells that come from under these old houses, that came from these houses
That keep coming
Like the heat next to your ankles
Like cicadas in their summer long seances
Like the silent couple in the restaurant
and their cold tea meditation

It comes and goes

That apartment emptied out once sucked of hope
That ache between your heart and your legs, her legs
That burn in your belly
That kind of love
That kind of love
That kind of love

It comes and goes

1 comment:

Elizabeth said...

I really like the imagery here. And it feels very "you"...at least the you I imagine you are from your writing.