Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007


I have you in my mouth
and I'd like to fit in more of
your little bones, your shining shoulders
your cocked head and thumbs up and tender laugh.

Oh, oh oh.
I am not a noir, I am not a shadow
in a doorway of a hotel room.
I don't pin up.

Yet, I'd like to eat you.
Your little bones, your casual nods,
your knuckle raps, your rhythm.

I'd like to snake up your hallway like a housefire
and roast you alive,
you little treat.

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