Untitled

You are taking short, asphyxiating breaths.

There is no air in you.

I talk softly to you, aspirate you.

Your lungs are full of what you have not said.

You are not breathing.

This place is anaerobic.

I lance myself. My blood is thick and viscous

And slowly saturates my clothes.

There are too many others here.

I now am mystified and cauterize the wound against your rage.

Smouldering and breathless now we sleep.

Fall 1991

Be Sociable, Share!
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *