Crossing
In the parking lot you taunt headlights
singing that old love song
overdressed for your intentions—begging proof
for every inch.
Don’t leave me like another
lover. Licking my lips chapped.
I’ve run out of alibis.
I am threadbare at the knees.
Give me a ticket and I’ll slap you
rip knuckles on wires.
Asleep with our boots on
skirts twisted and much too tight
we refuse to be saved but are justified.
In this waste I am old like those churches
arches high and breathing from the ribs.
Echoes rise thick with dust.
You find home in the brawl
fists full of hair
breath heavy and limbs deep
in the earth.
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This is beautiful. I want more…
Ian said this on May 18, 2010 at 11:25 am