i was superstitious once. it was late, i couldn't see.
i slipped myself something
a little hot something
now i crack bones and hands like so many binder clips.
i don't like running my bare feet over painted floorboards
warped with spilled beer and careless staggered fingerprints.
i don't like fingerprints.
running down the pull string you left hanging
the knob and tube tightening the brown softwoods in my craggy attic.
i hit my head on it again.
you can touch all the corners
and never make a square.
i know.
i watched you.
i'd give you back two fingers if you'd shake my hand.
but that wealth
is out the window and down the street .
touch nothing and remain
as empty as the eyes you throw at me.
and i'll still ask you to look.
i'll still turn out the light.
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