The Mirage

Thursday, May 27, 2010

by Christian Ray Licen
email: shakespeareinlove1988@yahoo.com
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For the love of poetry
there’s the rain.
Falling,
as my thoughts drip from the blades of the leaves,
impalpable on the sheets
Falling,
like blizzards by the glass panes
Your perfume breaking against the smell of sewage,
Sewage against the lumps of your sweat
forming cusps in my lips.
Falling
below the muted sun
trickling down
the spine of the trunk
between my cavity and your promise.
falling, rough on your skin,
again—
Fizzling.
falling, damp on the blanket
and again—
until every scratch in your back
reminds me of water.

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