Adumbrated Words

Sage. Cinnamon.

Poetry poetry poets see poets in bed

Poets of the head saying "there’s bullshit in the tree."

Poets needing bedded rest. 

Poetry giving them rest.

And the rest?

She thought the rest could hear her heart-beat

When he reached back to hold her hand

une fleur d'intimitée

When he first pressed his Tanqueray mouth to her

sticky-lip lips-- her long time loveless lips

menthol cigarette lips

lips for him. Lips on him, around him, whispering lips in his ear

saying “Kaff, Kaff Kerouac” and him too

Lips to form the words of poetry

--tiptoeing tongue to ear, and kissing words

She called him her poem. He was her poem,

that he was there, never touching her there. And where?

She lays there now, hopeless, waiting for him to steal

a glimpse

of her.

--Quiet eyes and bearded face, thin

in her night time glimpse of another world.

And when that face smiles ‘neath cloudy brow

she wants to stay for another day--

She sat, stroking his thumb until he looked back

To smile and squeeze. To inform her

that tomorrow will have words, too.

The slate gray sunlight cracked through the blind

of a night time read.

She hopes for a cicatrix’d heart

around letters deep in cinnamon bark.