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Sitting still I bite
my lips that bleed sweet
anger on one thousand hilltops as blood
drops, combines with rain
across the face of a weary tred: My own
soaked galoshes, feel my blue fingertips,
the cold femininity of short nails
now cut straight, yet long
enough to paint the royal hues
of a famished artist
and his blue companionlike guitar-
Picasso. With winter yet to chill
our spines. Lying still, I dream of a massage,
your touch eroding my joints
with tenderness. Loosening residue of words
I cannot hear in our threshold of rain.
MARINA GIPPS
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, March 03, 2006 |
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, July 10, 2007 |
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Poets
