Cotton Books

by Poetry

he came to her bed
on some forgotten day

to read he swore & came
brandishing old books
in the sunlight dust

               smiling she welcomed
him to her bed

body-bed-body torturous
               he read for hours
until the night feeling & bedsheets
               more than a form
& the long-dead

in her tears he swore devotions
               he is devoted to her
               the books still open their
               legs in the night eyelashes
               flutter through smoky memory
               & no dust bedroom
               & he finds it impossible
to spell the shape of her body
               sounding out
                              curves & flesh

now ink moves
               an endless butchery
as dreams torment
               unlovely flesh
& cold to the touch

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modern poetry

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Dare I dare, to watch the sun break open against these alien, icy shores? To watch it, rudely, shoulder aside the mist, from those distant, ice-shrouded moors; to push the smog of industry, into the alleyways of these bloody streets? To encompass these footsteps of...

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I spend my days wrestling with angels,
gripping and grappling…


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almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
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