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


Tom said...

love the flow and words.

Loch Rob said...

Very nicely done. Clear imagery for me in your words. I enjoy your poem!

Charles said...

I feel so much from the imagery of your hand, but held my breath at the end?
This is lovely, Anna.

Kristen Haskell said...

"tiptoeing on the tightrope of your breath" powerful verse. Succint like "Walking on Eggshells" Wonderful and sad

Anna Piutti said...

Thank you all for your kind comments!