Pointed shapes

 

Thursday, September 18, 2014

 

 

The sudden chill

Brings out the best in you,

The pointed shapes

That haunts menís dreams
even fully awake,

The nape of neck

The sudden fleck of wet

The lick that tips it all

Into so much more

And makes cripples

Of men like me

Who hobble on imaginary canes

We did not intend to create,

All too obvious

But not so easily contained,

When the chill air comes

We overheat, and seek

Just a little peek,

Or touch with the tips of fingers

We know will scald

Despite the cold,

Palms curled around

The whole of them,

While our minds plunge

Deep into places

We only dream

Of reaching

 

 


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