Sunday, June 29, 2008

I trust in my relief

Time is the plot in which love grows thoughts.
Love is a harvest of stones

Where the stones are even at nones

and abruptly we are at fault. I've been clearly at fault.

I bid you dearly come near,

My heart is a knife

onn the throat of a trusted accomplise
My dear heart is near
at the neck of a fugitive hostage
At the plate of a murdered sorella
In the bowels of a fugitive captive.

Or in the mouth of a beggar's hot mouth.

I thought once that it should be more difficult to remember
that your heart is a knife. That your heart is also

Your heart too is a knife, claimant

and it interrupts nearly almost some kisses
with feints and lively stabs
Sews breath into the shadows behind clothing
with undulant motions, parses torsos parts skin
Still it will not let me dress, and the morning is already done

Shocked recognition unwillingly flies.

Without warning we know we're at fault, there's no doubt
that I'm wrong.
There is hardly time to repair.


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