Brevet Wilson Poems
Comments about Brevet Wilson
9 Miles On A Dirty Futon
I spent nine miles with her.
in a cheap apartment.
Boxed wine and cheeses with exotic sounding names.
Eaten on a blanket on the floor as we had no table.
we had no couch,
we had no television.
But we had music.
At night we would lay on a futon matress
that layed on the floor.
The streetlight outside the bedroom window playing shadows across sections of her.
First her eyes were lit, the rest of her awash in shadows,
when she turned,
her mouth was visible,
but her eyes were shadowed.
A breast, a thigh, her hair all illuminated
There is a room where everything is broken,
a room where gravity even slips gears.
Scrawled and aborted love poems
have been burned into the carpets
If it wasn't for the empty, cold drafts the air would stagnate
and fall to the ground in thick, oozing clumps.
Flies swarm the red wine that is splattered on nicotine stained walls.