Sunday, August 3, 2014

Still Life with Rolling Rock Bottle (v.2)

A tiny bat clings to the stone wall
inside the abandoned mill, sleeping
in the cool shade above a pit filled
with ashes and petals of green glass,
beneath the dead apparatus labeled
“Nigger Killing Machine”
in blue spray paint. Sunlight streams
through the bullet holes in the roof,
making the vines glow like cathedral
windows. We lounge intertwined
beside the creek and eat tomatoes
and brioche and cheese
and later that night slow dance
in your room to Kiss me Kiss me
Kiss me, your scar-crossed
cigarette-burned wrists
locked around my neck, my nose buried in
your sleek black hair.
Then your blue face in the dawn
and I’m running down the street
to catch the bus before your dad wakes up,
and then it’s decades later and I’m
kicking through the clutter
that accumulates mysteriously,
the bones and boxes and bottles
in this huge heap of wet debris
that no matter how many matches
I toss onto it
just will not burn

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