Saturday, December 05, 2009


Nourish me
on a whim.

Let me drink the
liquid spectrum of
your glee, and

feed the sunrise
every dull chord
in your scale

before the hour's end.

Scratch your way out
of my chest --

rough and dry.

Bloodshot cadences of
foreign lives still linger
in the fabric of a train seat.

Iteration of intent. You fool:

there is no such thing as
"same" in the aftermath
of play.

I resent

tiptoeing on the tightrope
of your breath.

In the frenzy of your hunt,
I'll be sleeping at the zenith
of a clock hand.

Future promised;
body withheld.

Copyright ©2009 Anna Piutti