In the Lurch

Standard

Slowly, you undo your breathing.
Seething with sleep, withering leaves
bunched in your palm.

Grip of great solitude.
Solidarity in lumps.

There was the basting exercise you exalted
and understated the prunes.
Seven moons moaning.

I ask you to wreathe
my neck in gilt feathers.
Truths weaken. Blank and bleary,
we become tundra.

-r. miller

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3 thoughts on “In the Lurch

  1. This is a very daring poem that doesn’t just say what you’re supposed to say so people snap immediately in the reading room. Based on your blog name and slogan I’m guessing that’s the point. Thanks for visiting my site!

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