Everyone is on the scale, I’m told and that’s enough-
sometimes contact with an eye scolds like a plate hot
and the world of my dreams-
how can I explain,
they are thick and wet with the quiet of history,
and suffocating with the hot moist stink of gasoline
and always I arise to a racket of light
where numbness gives way to the march of the needle
and my shoulders are curled like the toes of your lover,
and I send out my eyes on their own little mission,
good morning, good morning
my heart is still beating
my lungs still swollen
and my blood-
still running round headless
seemingly searching endlessly for an exit.
Who said, “most men lead lives of quiet desperation?”
He was right, but failed to include women.
This is so nicely pulled together!
Luke is my Brother
gr8 job lukey xx