Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Rolling Valentine

Isn’t the heart
a kind of oasis
after the desert
of the brain
after all the thorny
abstractions broken
furniture sudden
alarms it comes
as a relief to hear
it suck and spit
knead and fold
the helpless blood
tasting even the sun
on its skin saying
almost indifferently
roll me this way
then roll me back

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