his breath smells like incense
like herbs burned at church
his eyes look like hot coals
with rubies they burst
she brings him the paper
he looks at the pictures
the quiet of morning
slaps plaster on fractures
a wink and a laugh
and a prayer for the fixtures
keep breathing away
and the past slips to future
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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3 comments:
Skippy: this is so domestic.
domestic yes, anon. it takes place in a domicile.
easy like sunday morning!
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