Cotton Books

by Poetry

he came to her bed
on some forgotten day

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

               smiling she welcomed
him to her bed

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

in her tears he swore devotions
               he is devoted to her
but
               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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poetry
poetry
modern poetry

Beautiful & Meaningless

were I a painter
& could distend light
across empty skies
I would paint the bodies of Christ
as they rolled in their eternal
loves & agonies

Independence

gentle shores teasing infinity are
beautiful but they are not you
I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty
independently

Swearing in Italian

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

Sometimes

Sometimes, we kneel in the shower with the pressure
and the heat turned up as high as they can go…