Modulations
Something about loose lips and loose women,
old young recollections
some too dark for conversation,
some too light for
a poetry reading.
Your face is disfigured;
when I open your page,
greying origami birds
fly out of your story
beaks carrying
lint and gilings, but something else,
a partial picture of what we left in each other.
We will cry about this one day,
after the last day perhaps.
I am modulated by memory,
by the lingering smell
of your lusts.
The slow simmer of times
throes and pangs.
Maybe by then we will
catch each other’s breaths
inhale long last drops,
bundled together
as close as new bled lambs.
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