08-17-2014, 08:46 AM
Edited:
Your body hasn’t felt right in months,
so you lie on a table,
and flinch as the needles poke your skin.
Remembering,
how the fern grew towards the radio,
left on by the woman in the summer dress,
who stayed up listening to someone breathing.
*
I follow you into the house,
where you unsnap your dress
and stand at the dresser
as light spills out from a black cloud.
I will tell you not to move.
I will teach you about stillness.
I remember strolling at dusk
through southwest London,
staring into the faces of a whore
who sat in a doorway smoking.
She ran her hands over my hips,
and dreamt of being reborn
a blackberry bush
who pricked the hands
of those who touched her.
*
I was young when I left home.
I thought that I had plenty of time.
So I sat with my feet in the Atlantic Ocean, looking east.
You wore black that winter.
You could have been anyone.
You could have been snow falling through the arms of a tree.
Original:
Because your body hasn’t felt right in months,
you lie on a table and flinch the needles poke your skin.
Remembering,
how the fern towards the radio,
dresses in the summer,
a car parked at the roadside,
and someone listening to someone breathing.
*
I follow you into the house,
where you unsnap your dress
and stand at the dresser
as a drop of light spills out from a black cloud.
I will tell you not to move.
I will teach you about stillness.
I remember strolling at dusk
through southwest London,
staring into the faces of the whores,
who sat in doorways smoking.
when I bumped into a woman,
who would not understand this poem
even if I read it to her.
She ran her hands over my hips,
and dreamt of being reborn
a blackberry bush
who pricked the hands
of those who touched her.
*
I was young when I left home.
I thought that I had plenty of time.
So I sat with my feet in the Atlantic Ocean, looking east.
You wore black that winter.
You could have been anyone.
You could have been snow falling through the arms of a tree.
You could be everything I have.
Your body hasn’t felt right in months,
so you lie on a table,
and flinch as the needles poke your skin.
Remembering,
how the fern grew towards the radio,
left on by the woman in the summer dress,
who stayed up listening to someone breathing.
*
I follow you into the house,
where you unsnap your dress
and stand at the dresser
as light spills out from a black cloud.
I will tell you not to move.
I will teach you about stillness.
I remember strolling at dusk
through southwest London,
staring into the faces of a whore
who sat in a doorway smoking.
She ran her hands over my hips,
and dreamt of being reborn
a blackberry bush
who pricked the hands
of those who touched her.
*
I was young when I left home.
I thought that I had plenty of time.
So I sat with my feet in the Atlantic Ocean, looking east.
You wore black that winter.
You could have been anyone.
You could have been snow falling through the arms of a tree.
Original:
Because your body hasn’t felt right in months,
you lie on a table and flinch the needles poke your skin.
Remembering,
how the fern towards the radio,
dresses in the summer,
a car parked at the roadside,
and someone listening to someone breathing.
*
I follow you into the house,
where you unsnap your dress
and stand at the dresser
as a drop of light spills out from a black cloud.
I will tell you not to move.
I will teach you about stillness.
I remember strolling at dusk
through southwest London,
staring into the faces of the whores,
who sat in doorways smoking.
when I bumped into a woman,
who would not understand this poem
even if I read it to her.
She ran her hands over my hips,
and dreamt of being reborn
a blackberry bush
who pricked the hands
of those who touched her.
*
I was young when I left home.
I thought that I had plenty of time.
So I sat with my feet in the Atlantic Ocean, looking east.
You wore black that winter.
You could have been anyone.
You could have been snow falling through the arms of a tree.
You could be everything I have.