than what's left of her face.
Her arms are scratched
like she was attacked by a feral cat
in her sleep.
The bed's coarse
with a thin layer of dirt
from the pot that's pulled
desperately to her chest.
That cactus he'd bought her
punctures the sheets
as deftly as her skin.
She's slept with it
ever since he stopped
when he found those orange caps
strewn about her apartment.
It's aerodynamic rebuke
and inspired clinomania
from seeking the face of God
outside katydids
through street lamps.
No comments:
Post a Comment