Monday, June 28, 2010

she speaks

freezing on the
on-ramp of an
interstate, you just want
the warmth
and nothing but
elsewhere, to flood
through your chest
and your hands,
to get yourself
to the other side
of the looking glass
between you
and the whole
fucking world.
To cover you
like your sleeping bag
can't. Maybe just
to hide in
another darkness.
To not piss
in the rain where
the ice-wind
cuts your legs, cuts
up inside of you
where no one
should be you don't
Sometimes that's
all you want -
the warmth
elsewhere is;
might be . . . impossible to tell
with all this


  1. I want to know more about it. And perhaps hear you read it.

  2. Something that I love about your poetry and Molly's poetry is that it's not my voice that reads it in my head. It's yours. This is great.