Thursday, October 15, 2009

how high the moon

She's turned on
by violence and fire.

Control and devotion.

He liked the way her voice sounded
when it delivered consonants.

Sex under the Christmas lights.

The ones in the bedroom.
The ones that are on year around.

His left hand was on her breast.
His right, her hip.

She came,
as he stared at the moon,

yet, again

trying to find . . .

No comments:

Post a Comment