tell me you are grown
up
while you write only slightly more
than mediocre poetry about mecrack the world between us
into tiny little planets that only
song
can expressmake me
run
like Carver's peacockswhile the wild wind beckons
shrill
and forlorn outside the triple glass
drag your icy fingers
down my throat 'til they
meet
addiction running
in bloody rivulets betweenmy breasts, then
sing
us into oblivion or ecstasy
on the selfsame note
make them
wonder
who I am© s rogers 2008
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Oh, this is marvelous; it runs at me, whips me around a couple of times, and then leaves, like a whisper.
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