I
Pictures of you
circulate
with my blood.
I can hear
my pulse
falling down
the stairs I'm
crawling down
to you.
II
Your hand in mine
is faintly narcotic;
holds with
sleepy grip
a certain dim
arrogance, that
(could it be)
we two alone
stand
on slow drugged legs,
hazy lazy lips
in slackjawed
awe
of each other's
(own)
extraordinariness.
III
Peace
my love,
in the sweated
aftermath.
We two,
like a pair
of mismatched
socks
on the line
dripping
Peace
Copyright 2000