"dancing fingers"
everything was hands on.
they came with glasses of cheap wine.
she (a singer) lay across my piano
to confess all of her greatest
conquests.
i was struck.
perhaps by
her voice; a river in time
where flowers would grow & bloom
then wither
near a snow-covered creek
i was positive that her soul resembled a
white pine coffin:
a wordless chamber where the Sun couldn't
reach & where the bleached wood purified her
(hardly) admirable life.
but i recalled her smile &
there was something pure in that.
No comments:
Post a Comment