17 04 2009

Stella doesn’t understand poetry,
my corn husks, lost in the wind.
Ah, lonely desert metaphors
she casts them aside,
and laughs at them –
how they twirl.

While I am pensive,
she giggles on the phone –
hips swaying, eyes crinkling –
little crescent corners.
I can hear her skirts sway,
confetti in the hems.

Her long bodied boyfriend writes
soft words: “you are absent,
and my loneliness is layers
upon layers, like coffee
grown potent, like wind
rushing wind.”

It is tasked to pallid me,
to put her river sunlight
into prose, send it to her facelss honey.
To whom am I saying
“I want to fit my curves
into your corners,
and hear your night time sighs”?




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