Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Tickling Throat

At the tip of this slum is what I
Polished and then threw over board.

Symmetrical breath, unsheathed shivs
And prison bulbs, roses in gaslight

Gassed highways and break-stones
Along the breath, gasps in high apartment
Complexes drink rain water until swollen
With striated toeholds on shopping dreams.

My child is renting her hopes
To swiftly passing bees and distant
Trains, her air trumpet gorged
And golden.

So beauty rests her
Bars as much as pink is a petal’s undoing.

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