yesterday the waxing of the surf
the setting of the sun and table
met me with an open hand.
which reminded me of other spheres
on legal and stolen tranquilizers
when we shook closed fists right ways
and agreed to disagree.
you in your trench coat.
me in my wanton emotional
transgressions.
yet later in our disagreements
we sipped on uselessly sweet things
(in coerced proximity)
with the still and drear
and yearned longingly for
the surf to rise
and the sun to be reborn
with our hands held out
(with effortless disparity)
and our eyes chasing wildly.
those were the days friend.
the days we marked with mourning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment