Monday, February 11, 2008

dcxxxiv

Lunch at eleven

Having forgotten how to love
he wraps his rope round the first word he finds
behind each belt buckle.

Playful.  Harmonious.  Seductive.

I don’t have a signature.
Plus, I deserve a pizza.

It was great and bubbly
talking about poetry
with the windchimes.

My mind is a fuzzhead.

Chime one for me, Somerset.


                                 —X marks the spot.