Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

my morning is unmoving.

she's comotose,
it's around fourthirty
and i've mistaken afternoons
for slowly rising suns.

pavement raw and soft
with the scent of cloud.

last night, we'd collapse
in rock gardens.
just me and the sky.
and while lying on my couch,
you'd swear he wasn't there.

i'm spinning as i fall,
i sink into your open eyes,
die as you shut and turn away.