smell of scotch
the guy lying next to you in bed
hands you his business card
you awaken to the rasp of
moth wing against bread crumb
moth wing against bread crumb
one
by one
the ones
that got you here
to this room the color of 1978
hung in the hues of the photograph
you pretended to smile in
the one that developed
instantly
not like this want
slow
grown
in the basement of your ribcage
where the things
that change
are the things
that eat your insides
and this
canine's
canines
scrape
your marrow
your marrow
and you know
you know
that the only bones you have
can't
be
thrown
this poem humbly offered up for OpenLinkNight at dVerse poets.
