Monday, August 30, 2004

Band Aid

Crossed threads of light and cream
fell apart in my hands like brown
sugar, like sweet dinner rolls,
like caked mud on my calf.
When loneliness wells out of my
lacerated skin and warmly
hugs the rough, wounded
edges before crawling
with gravity's steady pull,
I clutch for the crumbles
of inspiration. I need them
to grit in my eyes and pinch
at my thighs and dampen
my tongue. That powder,
that cream, it was me and you.
It was an itch and a scratch,
a partnership of muses,
making hours slide like freshly
hatched minnows in the dry,
dark night and words
and poetry dance with
flashing stars.
No dim glimmer
or thread of light.
No healing touch or
thought. No help.
Fall long, fall hard, fall away.

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