tuesday afternoon
as midday filters
through my curtains,
i fall asleep to warmth
settled against the
nape of my neck --
a crooked-toothed,
sanguine lipped lover
just about to leave.
there is both nothing
and everything in my wake;
tepid sheets
and a silence
that aches to be written
on dry tongues
after heatstroke dreaming,
i savor it --
let it curl up
inside of me;
let it become a hoarfrost
diary entry,
scrawled on the
arc of my thigh.
on the floor
there's a litter of
glasses i'm too
desultory to wash and
a pile of clothes
and a never-ending cough,
scattered like dry-leaves,
raspy & rough.
in my skin is
pain-meds & sore throats,
and the demolition of day;
surface cuts and filmy
bruises: brown to pale yellow
from a lamp leaning crooked
on the floor, fallen from
the nook of a nail-polish
stained table, lacquered
and dirtied now somehow the same.
overhead the dawn leaks across
the dark -- the shadow of a hand
falling away from flushed skin,
like god after the creation of
satan; hell mocking heaven,
what it's like to be human.
Read more: Is dis poem any good?