Harleen Seventy
Untitled I slurred my surprise, like errant waves Gorgeous men in the August fatigue The nights pressed ahead, the edge of the known world like lapis I thought the unthinking bug-like dark was dapper Two conflating into one cooling, conciliatory sweetness My tongue lain with sticky sweet mirth and dreamless sleep The dirt of being singleminded was all over me, a scar layer of plaque Who says we can’t have the slutty past back I climb the pale altar, to turn death’s mayhem around Shrewdly-timed episodes of feminine woe August dealt in curious things, in feelings that were misheard |