harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
( my white lily thigh is handled harshly by hands which are not mine nor his there is only a dream of death which has haunted the alcoves and hollows of my skull for near a decade ( i should have seen how could i dream for so long ) and my haunches are hurt from the disjoints and numbed nerves which hang like flowers in the alcoves of home where my fingers linger on the honeyed knife and the streak of butter on the oil cloth my mother's face severed by age and dad's left eyelid itching with stress but sunday breakfast was lazy and lovely with my buttered mouth blooming in a yawn ( i had woken from a buttercup yellow dream to the sunny yoke of a boiled egg ) where the dog helloed me in a tail wag languid as the film of astral dust which had already settled on the day and i felt those powdery stars seeping on my cheeks when mrs. darling's scalp was made bare from chemical infusions and when the dog's tongue lolled over her open jaw ( it was a dream and aching spell i could not dispel from me even when it was lost ) their ghostly limbs lingering in my bones long after long before death and deep smothering sleep how i should have known when that rose garden had grown deep beneath my temples )
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