Saturday, August 25, 2012

Dear Dissident Sweetheart

At the beginning,
where it hurts,

(not like a slap from a spoon,
I wasn't a bad child, was
too good,) I have scrawled
your name in the sheet of

fog

and been marked by your seal. 

A puncture wound, it hurts
a puncture wound, so beautiful

was it.

The ageless generosity,
gold coin of the moon,
spoke of something of
something-- 

but we
did not
understand.

I had what I have.

Will I always be pulling yellow
hair from my mouth

Always, one old
door creaking 

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