Tuesday, December 1, 2009


by John Swain

I choked on your silver,
metal necklaces drown me,
the rust taste hermetic
sealed over our faces
like blood on the blade on my tongue.
I rifle through delicate silks
hid in wooden drawers
for vials of whatever fleeting comfort.
The sky slept on the ground,
throngs of my weak arms salute the day,
waking with my back bruised
beside the green wall.
I fell against pyramids of myrrh,
the smoke castles calm nothing
so I numb the portents desiring
a common portion of assurance.
But you are tired
and I am so tired,
my heart fell out of your locket.
Then in the heat of day
I rub ointments
after the bath of fire,
maiden please close the shutters.

No comments:

Post a Comment