touching,
gently touching. while these pills insist on punching.
pounding,
so resounding. please just fix this bleak surrounding.
gripping,
all is slipping, and these legs can't keep from tipping.
face against the wallpaper: so i say again,
"pattern of the fleur-de-lis,
can't you fix what's wrong with me?"
unlike god who's fast asleep,
you're right here to bring me peace.
1 comment:
This one's always been my favorite of your poems, your clever poem about the dates a close second.
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