semi-precious

I want to be a stone. Cold
and sober.
Stoic
between his rock and
her
hard place.

There is no piety
at parties. Words
winding out of the dark; between
drumbeats,
restless bodies
and warm cider spilt on skirts again.

I take an inch off my privacy
every time
I clean. Forty degrees
is hotter than it used to be.

I want to be a stone. Cold
and sober.
Cracking off
freeze-thaw mood swings: hot
and cold diet of subtraction
softening edges.

Sun-kissed
by eventide. I
wake up sticking
to stories of sea-labotomies.







June 2009.