The ashen state of
Another's knuckles
Only serves to
Dissolve his lips
When brushed against
Burnt skin
Made crisp by sun -
A consequence of
Keeping to the
Shadows, the silence,
Wearing out long
Love letters and
Throwing stones
Across the window
When the telephone
Wires go down
This is not some
Lovely punctuated
Countryside nor
Is this hell,
But merely the
Resting place for
Puckered skin and
Bruised-kissed
Lips who don't
Yet know the bite
Of teeth
