Rockaway
White lips curl furiously as warm hands reach for the mouth that speaks so loud.
Swallow—swallow.
Gracious god falling from the sky; there dies my warmth, there dies my youth.
Silently rushing, chasing—gulping. Lips curling kissing the soft, demure land.
From this window I’m perched to picnic and think.
White lips—kissing—such fizzle frazzled as salt spread thinly, plainly across her bare
back...she needs a hand to smooth her lines of fault.
Oh the age she hides!
...the years she’s gone without a crank to lift her bare boned backless face.
Sinking, sinking---SANK.
Green illumination garnished the canvas sky.
A flash, a bulb, another shard of life to wake.
I fog---I fold and yet they curl! they snarl.
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