|
|
|
|
| |
| |
|
Poetry
For Love
C. Earl Nelson
disgusting
the things ive done
for it,
waiting til dawn
for a beige telephone
to twist madly
in its beige cradle,
racing
up interstate 75
on fire
for a drunk irish woman
and her wide ass,
every last thing
i own
packed tightly
into the trunk of
yet another failing automobile.
you take it in stride
with a grin
all judgement cast aside.
knowing full well
and
knowing not
a goddamned thing
except
the manner in which
her voice crawls like song
vibrating a thin wire
the last string
the final straw
until
wound tighter
than a clockspring
you dive.
|
|
| |
|
|