after she's gone
the armchair
here were her lithe hands
like branches
her crystalline legs
crossed overyou recall the conversations,
the residual melodies
of her harmonic voice:
a warm airvent in winter
(New York, cold and black
wet asphalt venting haze)
singing warmth around
your heart in phoenix ribbonsyou can almost feel
the after-image of her presence
her graceful, tempting body
melding with your soul
in an erotic dance
of thunderous passion...the armchair
carries her scent
carries her sound
carries her shinecarries it
away
past
falling
curtains
of snow
YOU ARE READING
(untitled) -- a collection of experimental poetry [COMPLETE]
Poetrymy keyboard is a minefield. my mind is broken glass. when my body bursts apart, the shards catch light and look like blinking stars. ( 1 year of poetry )