Of Arms

What would we hold,
your tongue, I hope.

A shallow grave is all
I know. Ribs to stone,

heart, hard as
iron. And still,

above, pulsing lights,
for that matter dead

before they reach
the eye. What would

we carry down into
the grave, smoldering

thick, grey smoke like
holding onto fire.

1 comment:

Gen said...

Is this Rachel from Professional Ballet School?