Lying on your side, belly
Tucked under a wire cage
confined
with the toes of a dancer.
Like the tap tap tap
Was not that of our broken
faucet.
But you’re tough.
Like Swiss army knives
and the poems you write
for me,
your neck perched on
matchbooks
will singe the eyelashes
off of someone’s
god.
Friday, May 29, 2009
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