(no subject)
It closes and closes
On the tiniest tip of my tounge sits a memory.
A mere pinprick of smoke and skin,
and a sweet wetness that will stay with me always.
Every pinkish tastebud is our moment of grace,
our moment of tastes.
On the drooping black power lines there are black sneakers,
that spin in the most perfect circles for no one.
In a breezy lightness they spin, twirl, spin.
But I imagine you left them there,
in the coal night just for me.
An unadorned reminder of an irreconcilable difference,
an irresolvable distance.
Tonight I'll watch them twirl once more,
under a searingly bright moon
that paints the sky an artificial morning.
And it will be appropriately.terrible.
I wish,
I wish,
I wish,
to cut out my tounge.
.