Tuesday, April 27, 2010

St. Peter Armengol

I see you running. Your legs

tear through the air, leave silk

tattered in their wake.

I knew you’d run. As we rolled over

in bed, I saw the signature curve

of your outlaw mouth.

A bandana could never keep it dark.

Your teeth shine through fabric,

generate their own suns.

They will hang you, but it will not

kill you. I imagine your homecoming.

I run my fingers over the permanent

twist in your neck. I cannot believe

this resurrection.

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