poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Out of the Bag

She saw butterflies stop by the
bookcase, in the smoke of our loose
postures.  He flinched. Her bruised eyes slide
onto the voyeur turned to use
of laughter in pursuit, best hope
that he can muster at rest in
the thunder while the fading out
of body ghost still smiles about
the dirt on her hands, the hole in
her tongue, what she has become; glad
to be speaking through reeds and sad
for the trouble she's been. Kohl on
her face, and she's proud like he's dead;
he'd stay there for good if she said
that he could, but he doubts that she
would, since she has roses, tipped by
her window.  Curled as a cat she
sits and flashes skins so bright eyed
child springs to mind, the menace of
the morning street, the white face spilt
with smoulders catching cinders while
she meets and holds his crooked smile
sidelong, never backing down.  He
considers himself impressed, and
wishes he'd forgotten to stand,
just this time, on solid ground. He
wishes he were right for once. Rain
drums on; it's in his head again.

15 May 07

(define the words in this poem)
(9 more poems by this author)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


i like something about this
 — unknown

Hmm.  Something?  I'll make sure I include that in the next draft then... anything more specific at all? Cheers.Bx
 — 2CBurt