Wednesday, September 08, 2010

The Morgue



The Morgue


Here the milky quartz in the river delivers its pain to my hands.  Sometimes
boredom cradles the climate of my skin as if a drained river had infected 
the morgue of old images, the glittering eyes of a dead comet goldfish,
you spread my legs and penetrate.  Sometimes the river never stops digging and I’m left swimming among the reflections of escaped water.

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