And because it is my heart
black beats stomp crimson
you are my tomorrow
yesterday's flowers drop petals
on the mahogany tabletop
shining with pledge.
i press my tounge to the wood
licking bitter lemon cleanser
and leave a streak
that will have dried
by morning.
once, the roses were new--
unpricked thorns of unpicked beauty--
and now they rest in the
vasegrave of cobaltblue.
you murdered something beautiful for love.
The title of this poem is from "In the desert" by Stephen Crane.
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3 comments:
I love the imagery in that first line: "black beats stomp crimson."
i just finally really read this, instead of just glancing over it in the course of my blog reading before going off to work the coffeemine and i really like it. i like it as much as a magical murder bag.
Thanks for your comments, folks. I really appreciate them. I really like this poem. It's been awhile since I've written a poem that I think is half as good as this one, so I'm glad you noticed it too.
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