finding the sill

Square of green lite
Blu dust
Singed edge with scraping guitars
An illusionary wif of mildew.
Thot id always look down from these windo bars
I didn’t realize how I lov to look up.
My face unflexed
Holds up slite curves like scaffolding
under a covered chapel ceiling
My pucker lips
Conform with my chin into the
Soft broken spot on my unused wrist.
Shadows and romance
My ribs push into and thru thim
Slitely bending the marrow
With their implied depth.
Aroused, my stomoach clutches the
Gritty buz of carpet
I leave my sno angel in the dust.
April 18 2002