549 Readings

Postcard with Phobia

                  A man shares space with his skull:
                  One eye open, one eye holed. The Rose
                  of Delirium lacerates the sallow elegy
                  of his cheeks. His lips stutter
                  in grayscale—a smudge of blood
                 on a chrome bumper.

                 It’s simple really: I say the feathers
                 in my mouth
and mean the gravity
                 of your ghost softened my tongue.
                 I meant not to remember you
                 at all—not your sad, waspish song
                 or your pilgrim’s bid for the polar dark.
                 Oh, my impossible wife—I never
                 meant to love you
                                                                  like this.
Posted 08/27/11
Hotel Amerika
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