the old Victrola's needle etches
where our lines met, our ages wine
blood-red plumes of haunted music
trill ever-so-languid
where darkness pardons
the space of our bodies
in dust without time -
your steady footsteps toward
the fugue
and i hard maiden moved rough
against the fold
the sullen gravity of fingers
coils unwound at the seams
as the bells toll
and the music coos soft
into the moist-bled covers
of our graves.

03/28/2008

Posted on 03/28/2008
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