of peculiar flowers/like sound of laughter/fluid in words you could spell/only after lettering down/libations on territories/virgin with mystic bites/of your footsteps/creating gardens/of hope beyond tales

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

the fan

it blows
your smell
out my window
would a man
or woman
like wet clothes on a line
be touched
by the sun, the wind
for another wet day
into a dance
let this wind blow us
and now I am wet
from my cheek to my chest
for what is not fun
out my window no woman
or man
my door open, never locked, never looked in
I touch for fun
while the walls speak blue and ash
sleep will come in the morning with the sun
sleep will die with memory
it comes up to my throat and slides back down
as I sit under the fan