How you compose me, drunk.
I am the last poem of vodka
& you dance slowly to yourself.
Like a girl who’d steal a motor-
cycle, you undress. Blisters &
rouge. How as I kiss you
a feather of blood breaks
out on your neck. Hunger or
cure? Your cat crawls between
us, soft muzzle of nonchalance.
How each morning, thinking of
an old poem, you remember.
Yes, you remember & the room
takes on the attitude of milk
boiling in the sun.
Tag Archives: domestic poems
Blisters & Milk
Filed under poetry
