Monday, August 10, 2009

Dopesick Angel

The bedsheets he uses to cover his
windows chatter in the wind, I watch

the stains on their edges move
into formation, grow wings. I imagine

what she saw just before the Mustang
struck her, I see her trying to raise her

hand to cover her eyes. He said he kissed
me because the mole next to my eye

reminded him of her, although she
didn't have any moles, and was much

softer and easier to touch. I touch
his crown as he's sleeping; I rub

the plastic edges, peel the stick-on
bunnies off the inner rim.

1 comment:

S.L. Corsua said...

I sense the separation from reality, the disturbed perception. Rereading lends a crawling sensation to my spine. ;)

Big on impact, as most of your poems are (I've been visiting now and then, for some time now; always a rewarding experience). Cheers.