Friday, May 28, 2010

St. Germain of Paris

she told me that she wears nylons

so her veins won’t fall out of her legs.

I imagine all those red rivers

converging at her feet.

a puddle of

something so dark.

she urges me to hug her

every day. I might not

be here tomorrow,

she whispers.

the two of us

lean back in our

matching recliners.

a dove lands on the porch railing.

it slowly coos us to sleep.

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