When I return alone home,
morning, afternoon, evening, night,
when ever
what ever
how ever
no one
. . . . . . is there . . . . ever
no one
silence undances with a skindeep shadow
reflected from an unsilvering memory.
I bed my brokenmess
cocooning the pillow
soft but unbreathing
yielding but unwarming
the unthreading remains of love
pulled up to my kissless lips
grow thinner
as night grows colder
as I turn
and curl
into a foetal question mark.
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1 comment:
Yeah; I know what you mean.
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