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...
i cannot help the evocation ; my mouth bleeds over it — my teeth gnash and weep for it. and maybe her lips were smeared red as wet rubies which glistened in the plastic light — mine were only ever the wash of petalish pink — my babyish tooth tried to grant her a smile: seeing the bed made and unmade you both make unmake it new again: i hold out an unpainted nail, feel her press it to a forearm, sweet as a keepsake. i touch:trail her navel as she undoes a thigh deeper than mine. i see her nude as newborn, a hare's breath away from your hot mouth — she was honey ish, close as a teardrop and i was not .
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