Monday, September 27, 2010

Eskimo Star

If the sun is my killer, let there be.
If the sun is my lover, let it pass. Below the green.
Tell me a secret any secret.
The way you whisper glides easily against my brittle skin.
I need you to be quiet with me.
Though we promise to stay up all night sucking telephone wire
We wake up wondering how
The line died and how
The sun is my killer. Let there be.
The sky is like a lover, figure eight over cold glass, at the lake bottom fireflies swimming we cannot catch without a pole.
Cut a circle. There I will be waiting.