Monday, September 9, 2013

Death Trap Bachelor pad

I lost you, Stella,
in icicles, overburdened,
you collapsed, hearing horns
in unheralded cold.

For you pointed North,
Pole-ward you pointed,
a five-sided arrow

of non-directional desire.
The furniture, damnit,
wants your blood;
you beat it off with a stick.

I won’t be here in the morning.


No comments:

Post a Comment