Monday, February 22, 2010

SINK

I wear a cloak,
of sorts,

woolen -
gray, aged hue
a bit irritating
to pink skin

but warm to me
on frigid morn,
knelt in prayer
for companionship.

I admit
I have
whispered my own name,
eyes closed to
invoke remembrances
of lovers
who spoke it
with lust on lips.

Bodies mauled by

touches,
sunken
and thrown.


Bottled message,
scratched with
broken pencil.
Sweet contents
long since sipped
to ease
the parch of tongue,
but no ocean
to toss
the vessel in.

Filled sink,
cold water,
bottle floats.
I revel at
training
it to swim.

I humor at this,
yet continue
before
I photograph
the foolish scene.
The curves and colors
pleasure me.

3 comments:

  1. I like the vision of this..... beautiful spoken words indeed

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thank you for reading this piece and for the comment, Dean.

    ReplyDelete