The Oregon Train in the Last Moments Before Dusk | Gregory Sherl

Jan 21, 2011 23:47

When you unbutton your blouse I think
flawed perfection. I hunt like a martyr,
begging the forest to take me for what
I am, somewhat of a good man. I strip
down to nothing, less than nothing I
have shed my skin, hung it from a tree
like an idea I was too scared to write
down. We always ford the river, the
water the color of toothpaste, the water
too far to touch my skin-it’s still
hanging from a tree, a ghost in love
with being a ghost. While your mouth
is on my mouth, we are robbed. The last
minutes of light welcome the first
minutes of fear. The robber at the end
of the world rubs his lost apprehension.
His gun is lost shrapnel from a war
I’ll never fight. He wants to know why
the river’s the calmest when you’re not
looking. He wants to know if the stars
will tell on his lack of social skills.
I tell him I don’t know. I tell him
Tonight we’re just trying to get off.
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