Friday, May 18, 2012

Poem #4

When the coffee has not licked the back of my eyeballs
When the topography of the brain has turned into foreign lands
I remember their shapes but not their names
I remember the jaggedness and the gray that pricks the inside of my skull
Spindles that hold up a big top where elephants are whipped and after the show eyelashes are put away
I move through the rooms as a specter
And wait for the lady of the house to return

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