There's a limit to your love
a coldness in the fitted sheet
between us
an eye-roll instead of a
sparkle
no twinkle left for Daddy
we watch our hands get washed
of the soil and dirt and clay
of love, the place for it
to grow, and what's left -
what's left is the steel-
brushed sheen of metal
the valves of a heart so hardened
that it has forgotten that it's not
supposed to have hinges
that, instead, it should dance
and flow like the wisps of a
ballerina's dress, like the
luminous tentacles of
a jellyfish, electric light
in a dark ocean abyss
- each mechanical
pump and pull another automatic
sunrise, another two-dimensional sunset
tightened by wires and gears and motors.
I search for the switch on the side of
a wax candle, trying to remember how to make light.
No comments:
Post a Comment