Could you blame me,
if your slap-dash fire
turns out to be a joker?
Or if your spinning incisions
cut just a bit too deep to bleed?

So in californian sunrises,
your skin could glow
marmalade orange,
and nights could never converse
with the waking hours.

If the time comes to equate this
with a furor of gesticulations,
then your motions would cease
to create the illusion of elation.

{It could all be arranged in rows
and columns; for the single purpose
of you finding your way home.}

03/17/2004

Posted on 03/18/2004
Copyright © 2024 J. P. Davies