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:
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.
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