Saturday, December 11, 2010

Lost

Lost


The hunter’s arrow crosscut through
the most sensitive
part of my imagination
as my poems coagulated
between each sunrise.

In the middle of this chaos my skin
dried,
hardened,
peeled,
and bled
in the gardens,
 the museums,
the streets,
mountains,
and rivers
where the mention of affection was lost
and you knelt,
sweating cold,
every time I struck your face
            —my love.

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