Friday, December 28, 2007

windowsill ridge.

I wear a lampshade as a night gown
You catch earwigs between your teeth
I take Polaroids of sheep and count them in bed
You clip your nails with pencil sharpeners
I am a bough being bent into a twig
You are a chapped lip

I skip the introductions to my novels
You see peeing as being of public interest
I laugh as if water were thrown onto me at a parade
You kiss as if sewing a button onto a jacket
I see the likeness that is the thing
You are a pliant leaf

I know almost everything there is to know about giraffes
You scratch the wall with your shoulder when walking down corridors
I trawl the ceiling boards for trout when I wake
You are as walleyed as benched older men waiting for the bat
I shake hands with dogs when I meet them
You hate soppy salads as much as mismatched socks

I am one rathe tongue, one mismatched liver
You navigate u-turns as nascar derbie drivers
I twill ink into a page, tie notes with vowels and hums with fleece
You are my first BIC lighter, sought after by riff raff and teenagers
I am your first yawn, a sunflower in your mouth
You are but a shawl on my shoulders
I am but the sea cleaving the wall

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