Friday, July 3, 2015


Soft through the curtained air 
her thin breaths—communicating
to him distinctly

the impractical romance—of late sleeping;

and then—upon finally beginning 
to stretch
and begin shedding

her gruff dreamy feeling of 
big armadillo skin
for more pliant—

and yet
still more 
unrealistic things—

day-old apparitions of seedy hard bread 
with holes up each of their middles,
for example,

and lugubrious brown 
streams of 
coffee pouring legato 
from giant steaming pitchers—he resolves

that to love her—here,
with abandon

as wild 
and weird 
as her 

impetuous nature—

would be far, far 
less risky
than to ever—dare endeavor not to.