March 07, 2008

red acacia drips of dawn

In red acacia drips of dawn
Your fingers tangled in my hair
I roll to where the sheets are warm

I watch our bodies and the shapes they form
Bodies naked, stretched out without aesthetic care
In red acacia drips of dawn

in which the plots for our arguments are drawn
Undoing themselves in morning’s lucid glare
I roll to where the sheets are warm

The wind has changed. You can’t fly kites in storms.
You couldn’t win a thumsy war or hold my stare.
We sit inside, drenched in red acacia drips of dawn.

I try to fathom if this rocking could become my norm,
I ponder you in those elated spotlights, sunlit, rare,
I roll to where the sheets are warm

and lie staring up at where the curtain’s torn
‘us’ and the curtain need repair
But not now, not in this ficticious time of yawns
in these red acacia drips of dawn.

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  • really impressed b, really impressed. c x by chris rogers on this entry
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  • hmmm…i like, some lovely snapshots of aesthetic anti–narrative. I particularly like a 'silence ful… by on this entry
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