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while the jury's out
by Bob Arcaniaquickly he super novae
he has a quiet eye a listless tan
too much time
i am the breath catching in my tonsils
am the softened hairs on his thigh
am the murky oil on his soles
into my delicate bedroom
(asking to share with a nectarines pit
he grazed my neck and in that moment:
a trombone, a white swan, a kamikaze)
grit between his teeth
Irina, it is winter, and I only know how to steep tea
never this.
02/22/2008 Author's Note: There is only, only time for now.
Posted on 02/22/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/23/08 at 05:35 AM I like how open-ended this feels by the end. There's a really nice sense of the idea that anything's possible, and I think you did a brilliant job pulling it off. |
| Posted by Frankie Sanchez on 02/23/08 at 09:05 PM wow. *a trombone, a white swan, a kamikaze* - this is powerful and well formed. |
| Posted by Dorian Black on 02/17/12 at 08:21 AM Firstly, congrats on POTD! We deserved indeed. Secondly, this piece took me by storm. The delicate intensity was played perfectly, and the message was well received. Thank you for sharing this miraculous prose. |
| Posted by Jolie Jordan on 02/18/12 at 04:07 AM Whoa, awesome. |
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