Tuesday 31 March 2020

Breaking Lake

These ghosts
Of touchings and glance
Prettying the void, indeed
But I'd rather not see
As I am, or be seen
Mirrored, stained, basin fed
Drawn to genius and almost-sex
Closing the cut of an open mouth
Never phantoms clutch the crown
Or throne such wildest augur
Worlds might fold
Always the ordinary
Demon, or poetry
Inked over in that, or this
Sent, and slick
I reach to warm your distance
They took the real
I want you felt my care
I need you felt our skin

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