Sunday, May 23, 2010

The length of your back
is the line I’ve been looking for

all this time
I’ve been writing poems.

That smooth and terrible
grace, the subtle

slope of your breasts
toward the floor,

my hands kneading
your back. Your giddiness,

my hands, our tongues,
salves, are alms

for these wounds. Are
poems, are medicines

are the lines
belonging on our pages.

Subtle, lying on your
shag carpet,

slowly rocking toward
the dawn.

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