August 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
I speak softer for goodbyes so you’ll know honeyed reluctance – sweeter
in the spoken of it – dripping slow with the tick of Venita. She breathes like a clock
and goodbye sticks with her rise and fall
reminding, that –
in the billowing of the walls after midnight when flowered paper
becomes a visage of a dark child’s slumber
wound up in poison and thorns and dark fairy tales: if they could ooze somewhere
they would ooze like molasses from the china walls
– you are not here. I think the walls
to let you in.
So I speak softer – fresh honey –
and the dull
exits with Venita, waking.