Poem

Tactilism

 

Where does that bottle end and my hand begin

Shapes fuse.

That is why I

     Drink.

 

You in my maroon flannel shirt turn into a boat

                        I sink my head

                        In your cupped

                        Hands, you drink.

                       

Me in your ripped dress shirt leaning over the ledge

                        To feel the purple

                        Of the beveled hills

                        Touch my cheek.

 

I do not sense you standing there, fingering a pack

                        Why are you

                        So bright

                        It hurts to look.

 

Before we speak to anyone they are layered objects

                        Everyone is beautiful

                        I shake my head no

                        Don’t say that.

 

We can never find a real painting to live happily for

                        Just eat this cold

                        Dinner of cherry soda

                        And fingerling potatoes.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s