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There's another skin inside my skin that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light; that looses its memory, its lost language into your tongue, erasing me into newness. Just when the body thinks it knows the ways of knowing itself, this second skin continues to answer. In the street - cafe chairs abandoned on terraces, market stalls emptied of their solid light, though pavement still breathes summer grapes and peaches. Like the light of anything that grows from this newly turned earth, every tip of me gathers under your touch, wind wrapping my dress around our legs, your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists. -Anne Michaels, "Flowers" |
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every dose of darkness was another seperate chance - moments revelling in their own importance hands in the graveyard (all eyes poised) naked waterfall breathing ...wild jungle lostness... after hours, it was all the same... your distilled attacks at my coherency every perforation vanished, drowning in a million open wounds your flaming hands put to rest... I lost you somewhere in our crimson midnight -07-31-99- |
