She keeps Earl grey
in her underwear.
She says, “I would like to keep Basil there,”
with uncertainty she says it.
The salt in your hair,
the salt in your bones,
brings me rain,
and salted, the slate wets.
You touch my arm,
tomato leafs in my hand,
I smell their briny dense bouquet.
A white dog licking the salt
in notes off one beautiful thin leg.
Her chest is sunburned apple,
her nose and her brother too.
I liked it when you said you couldn’t listen,
like memory it needs to be burned in.
Here’s where I should have started talking,
I’m guessing an utter would have done.
Such pathetic broken river rocks,
all in the shape of hearts, and hurt lingers
in the forgetful birds,
while under the pear tree
bees dizzy around the ripening
and she’s so lovesick
in her panties.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Posted by Robert Sparrow Jones at 9:00 AM
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