4/28/17

Standard

Like a burning dirigible,
she comes guns in tow
to sticker me with shock.
She says her name is Emily,
but I know it’s actually
Elizabeth or Sara or Britt.
That’s the short of it.
And she smiles, half-mockingly,
half-rhetorically, asks me
how exactly I’m getting on
with my vices and iced glasses.
She’s a spectacle, she is.
She deviates with distinction.
Her lurking, lyrical gaze
bestows form to my folly.
And as she turns on her breath,
she lays her fingers upon me,
unpins her gown,
and grows ripe in the sun.

-r. miller

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s