Tuesday, June 13, 2017

The Language Peddler

If I could only have the words themselves
not steer the vines that twine,
trimming the undergrowth into a manicured parade
of mildew rephrased to zest-forest green or some suchlike.

Seducing - their form alone, tricking into satisfaction
- of a stupefying frill with the soul
on the foot sole. Crackle-weary of treading
the sameness of someone else's daze.

Somewhen, the boyfriend said, having conjured
it on his own. A beat that pulses off its own accord,
violent and sweet, yanking me from side to side to
tumble-awake you.

So I can take a spot on the sun, among the
company of white linen sheets moist enough
to cool that thing you call a forehead.

1 comment:

LiteraryMinded said...

Oh! I know precisely how you feel! Originality may be a distant dream. I am very much enjoying reading your blog Madeleine.