A Developed Taste for Gun Oil

open palms drawn close to palm places,

ripped long before, before

we found each other on beds

 

in beaten motel rooms, with warped dresser knobs,

and sad, dog-eared bible pages—yellow and torn:

just like us then: filthy canvases

 

we often hoped to be found

like bibles in motel rooms,

full of well-meaning things

 

hid like a heart in a drawer,

in a warped dresser drawer—

 

curled amongst the tatters

of well-meaning things.

 

I love our game;

I dearly hope we can win it

 

from the eye of drunk, wasted arrases,

from the yellow of this torn motel floor

 

looking back at palms drawn close

to palm the dog-eared sheets of our places

now gone, as we are—gone long before.

 

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3 thoughts on “A Developed Taste for Gun Oil

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