Saturday, October 15, 2005


Pulling hay from her hair
with long stemmed fingers,
we slipped quietly through
leaves, dried and crumbling,
lips swollen from kissing,
over orange mud flats,
to a place where she said
we should go.

I was at once excited by
and terrified of
the gleam in her eye.
I have seen this same look
in the eyes of convicts and

In the density
to which I was led,
that smelled like tea.
Felt the barb,
and the too much of my speaking;
bland accompaniment.

Beneath it

a barking dog

a bit of string.

1 comment:

Jordan said...

found some you may find interest in:

poetry by Del Ray Cross, editor of Shampoo