You slept that night, promised
to die- an offering, offering.
You're two eyes swimming
further, further back like
a perishing flower failing
the vine, a fish desperately
pulling bright-white string
out to terrible, distant seas-
reeled in finally.
Sweet weight, seizure,
slipping away, a ship from
its moor, moves carefully
like sun on a low-lying hill;
this born-again quiet,
this laced, silver film.
How strange, your mouth
lying against a blue, satin pillow-
unlatched and dreaming
and dreaming.
1 comment:
Your writing really reminds me of Mallarme. I've added you to my links as I like your site so much, hope that's ok!
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