Poetica Spontenaium 06.15.04
Twisting like a curtain of blue
Caught in a steel and concrete valley
As the wind whips wild and wicked
Scattering dust like epithets
from Old Riley as he crosses the street
I cannot reach that spot
That small sweet spot
On the exact opposite side of my heart
That you would scratch for me
Though I crack and I claw
It’s just out of reach, and you,
I can not wish for nor beg
To raise a single finger to bring me rest.
Oh this itch! This irritation, this vile little patch.
That aches for some comfort and ease
I can almost pretend
that the rest of my body has forgotten
What it was like to rest at your knees.
Save for this itch.
On the through part of my heart.
Just on the opposite side.
No Comments Yet