Friday, March 16, 2007

Muscular Wrist

condensation
on our small windows

my thumbs (on you are)
sudden sugared syrup

these breasts weird as witches

steamed bra,
old contraption
of leather and spit
how you smell of the saints
and their mistakes
how you reek of injustice
against singing insects

nipples sting like bedbugs
like the dark eyes of drowned angels

silver skin, feathered with the hair
of pale cows,
coated with sweat
like weasel piss and milk

your toes architectural
little firm boxes, all in a row,
each a perfect snail shell

each
the size
of a coin
in my mouth

O I could die from you

2 comments:

Lyrically speaking said...

Beautiful words

Christine said...

Thank you!