Wednesday, March 9, 2011

what happens

(it is my hand along your hip that
curves the bend of you
against the headboard,
grace and sweat and noise,
the friction of our fur,
the tinder of our lonely shores
ablaze and damp)

crystalline, she spins into the urgency of
bedframe clattering against the
radiator orchestra, her
emphysema neighbor coughing down beneath
the floorboards of our whispers

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