Thursday, September 2, 2010

St. Antoninus

your lips are a half-eaten cake.

there is sugar on your breath

that tastes like a saint.

my bed is stained

with maraschino cherries.

today is a spilled cup

of black peppercorns.

the girls across the street

stare at us from behind

all those wrought-iron fences.

one shows her teeth.

she holds a fork

in her clenched fist,

threatens the very idea

of you & I.

No comments:

Post a Comment