Hard Evidence
Timothy Liu
A room walled-in by books where the hours withdraw.
At the foot of an unmade bed a bird of paradise.
Motel carpet melted where an iron had been.
His attention anchored to a late night glory hole.
Of janitorial carts no heaviness like theirs.
Desire seen cavorting with the yes inside the no.
A soul kiss swimming solo in an open wound.
The self as church where the whores now gather in.
It is a fact that I must be shown evidence of something I do not want to see, at the very least, three times. It is also a fact that three strikes means you are out. The third strike came in last night an hour before midnight.
Sti-Rke! You're Out!
No comments:
Post a Comment