Strangled by the vision of the phone cord
asked your maximum inclement language. I asked
alcohol in the pit without suture
surf at the bottom of the abyss.
More of the same, no. But you were not. My fingers
the urgency
detectives collected flowers drugged,
peaks for climbers, the shadow of an intrepid scuba
abandoned.
Everything was dripping and color.
With colors rubbed my face and back. My mouth
woman sipping the cliff.
A caramel
unhinged son is the baby's mouth with crayons,
with fruit, feathers and gifts
the
shower water still, off and apart, clean and pushes
run.
Photo: Irving Penn.
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