Nightmares of violent revolution
lacking sufficient iron for their molten brink;
yet irreplaceable facades of learning
explode in fiery ruin.
I shrink
from the curses
of earthworks and earthquakes
and run to this morning of rain.
Rain.
No water passes under that bridge
in the lost country
where you were queen
and I was king.
Agonies slithered down,
but none of them could tumble to a rhyme.
You fathom me. I know you always will.
Frown and I feel your forehead furrowing.
Sigh and I know how shoulders sag.
I know the pattern
the back-cream on your back
should make
before I rub it in.
................................
Dreamed of collage facades in Cambridge blowing up - wrote a lot of novel yesterday. The two got mixed up.
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesia"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
