5,186 Readings

Clear & Present

 

The prostitutes are having a good day.

The earth turns over into springtime, and
the morning opens like a can – frayed
and scalloped, floating in oil. You’ve lost
your youth, and the pale reproachful waitress
needs a new sweater. It is not enough
to drain the heart of Poetry; one must
go out into the desert, convalesce.

Our Lady of All the Angels offers
a ride, but who can afford it? And now
it’s not so cold at night. Our bitter and
colossal interests decompose; and slow
as Love, uninterruptible, there slurs
the Edict that buds turn into honey.
Posted 06/04/11
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