Tuesday, April 14, 2009

We can't afford the finer things in life so we heist them all... We're criminals that never break the law!

While I sleep my wife writes words
on my back.
She wants me to feel what she thinks,
what's inside her chest.
When I wake the letter Q boils between
my shoulder blades
as if it were branded or etched.
I think she traced C
but there's longing in her and she hates
the word covet.
Her delicate hands can’t hold desire.
She is sitting on top of me
naked, though her hair clothes her.
The bed isn't large
enough for this love tracing from her
fingers. The room
diminishes when she opens her eyes.
Room With a Bed in the Middle by Curtis Bauer

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