I love to be the stamp
Of a black epitaph
In black ink
On the first line of “Date Due”
I walk out with 3 or 5 or 2
And rip into them,
Breaking that virgin spine
Into beloved used.
gargling their words
to wash out
the talking-breath
of everyday conversation.
Give them to me, these icons of god’s addiction;
I want to saturate
in the serum of their forgotten fruit.
This entry was posted
on Monday, October 16, 2006
at 8:44 PM
and is filed under
Poetry
. You can follow any responses to this entry through the
comments feed
.
