745 Readings | 3 Ratings

Bastille Day


The secondary message
is already here.

Light soaks the curtains,
bleeds through.

The day’s vapors rise.
Our bedroom window,

cracked an inch,
looks West.

What will split us
has already seeded:

the accident in motion,
set to music,

the welling artery;
rogue  cells mulling rebellion.

Your head rolls into my lap,
its heat a promise,

the whole bed a burning isle.
But I sit up and

wait for the angel, for word.
Only fog responds,

long-knuckled, breaking
a pledge to the sea.

My breath fastens,
holds.  Fog finds

an opportune breach,
permission to cross the sill,

sweep over unfolded
clothes, mirrors, sheets.
Posted 08/06/13
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