Wherein I dedact my love poem.
Now I taste at a distance, you ask if
that makes you the arrow, blemished with praise,
brilliant in the air as multiples said
sail as green and skipping and quick. It does.
If you ripen for me, I will be your
yew, your bow; we will skit parks, flexible
and sunburned. I smile, commingled and I
taste all shades of suppurate, ripped, I wake
under a glass stallion, and haughtily,
he circles the river, which cages the
peacock, the tricklespeed, the constellates
and my chasing you. Lossy and pickling
I try to manipulate, taste peacock
and you, the lakeshore and now, I wish to
shit it. Placate the rib your body pulls
from me overnight. Breath all sipping,
be aroused in this bandage and braver.
Your ribbon is when the sky was still a
comfort. My dulcimer is thick and lean
and leaning on everyone I can see.
You can paint bracelets of broken bargold,
cant you? Bend, for a moment, plié. You
can. You can take it.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010