Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Poem For Sky Lovers

If the sky
poured meat on us --
If blood stained flannel
were faded by the sun --
If there were a warm muscle
inside a lemon --
It would all twitch
under your pillow
while you wrote poems
to end the curse.
With these words I kiss
your arm over
my throat
and in the time
it takes to sweetly
say go I say go.


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