13 May 2012
Boxer shorts Bottom drawer In a stumble, creased, found. Clinging Great moments of a clock The exact words we said are still life Catch in my throat Catch in my chest Ghost Though the warm sting of remembrance has long since gone. There is no care.
There is a jolt at reports, At your rough face on a timeline, Or your name in scribbled half-thoughts on paper. Your inadequacies. Tracing shadows across that memory Of begging not to forget.
My clay bears your palm prints, And though the skin I wear I long to shed- Your hands on my waist Times ago Are there in my sultry ghosting.
First • Opuss № I