(no subject)
three times we made love in the morning,
our dishpan mouths shut silent, an old feeling
too early in the day. neither of us could
wake before mid-afternoon, but on these special
occasions, ten A.M. could hardly come soon enough.
i've heard that poets don't waste words, and we
never wasted movement. each pull and turn a full
sentiment, a metaphor of yearning.
we hardly knew that parting could bring
such a deadening of spirit. the car rides,
where the radio always whispered cable tv
line-ups and newly manuractured designs. our cars,
side by side on the highway. side mirrors catch
a glimpse of flighting memory to carry through
the week. we part, retreat and exist in our
separate stases.
our dishpan mouths shut silent, an old feeling
too early in the day. neither of us could
wake before mid-afternoon, but on these special
occasions, ten A.M. could hardly come soon enough.
i've heard that poets don't waste words, and we
never wasted movement. each pull and turn a full
sentiment, a metaphor of yearning.
we hardly knew that parting could bring
such a deadening of spirit. the car rides,
where the radio always whispered cable tv
line-ups and newly manuractured designs. our cars,
side by side on the highway. side mirrors catch
a glimpse of flighting memory to carry through
the week. we part, retreat and exist in our
separate stases.