poetry & things


On my doorstep a poetry book, you left

cold with night winds, shivering words

written in your hand, poems I never read

I saw the way you tried to pretend

like there was something, somehow to mend

that night you descended like an angel

maybe Gabriel, sweetly musical

while Christmas songs played on the radio

I watched as holiday lights flew by

all the while your angelic disguise beguiled

felt the weight of deep denial

but I blame the stark desert moon

blame your entrancing wicked eyes

our foolish lonesome desires

and still I don’t regret

that night, the blue hot,

burning of the fire.

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