Stone painted red with
soiled with vacant, cavernous eyes;
a hollowed-out pretention of word,
carved into stone,
molded into eternal repose;
the nerve endings never connected
and paint-rubbed raw
to be circled
about the orbit of an eye.
recovering what remained before…
before anyone says a thing;
a love-ridden slip of a girl;
she makes such a lovely trophy for the night;
love is so much colder than death, said The Virgins,
and I somewhat agree
or at least one in the same;
hour-glasses fall from shelves
toward salty shore-lined whims—
ne’er-do-wells live close at bay.
with every tear drop,
every simple nerve
to receive the shock of how I now see;
us, and all the tenderhearted cognomina,
under love’s spell, is now
inside each other’s hearts—
painted on their walls.
the casualness of it all—
makes martyrs of us both;
instead of red paint
on my hands and stone in my mouth:
something new covers my eyes, sighing:—let’s go at light!—let’s go at dark!