An army of poses laid flat, the flush of your cheek--
This tower has a spiral staircase, a little window at the top--
From here, your confession made a clean unraveling--
Listen to me, Aldo (as if comfort could be contained)--
"It's like pulling socks out of the wash, trying to remember last night's dream"--
A different language for a different time of day--
Drawing targets on everything, a kind of twitch--
The dance, the dance, the dance, dance without turning.
No comments:
Post a Comment