Props

Show your teeth
and shock me
with a new sound
slipping off them
there's a bed post
in my old bedroom
there's a swing the
children abandon in
the heat of the weekend
there's a cigarette
in my drawer
that must taste
bitter as your skin.

These props we tempura painted
for the scenes I write
stand for flight
the reality our
faces encase
our words weigh
trying hard to believe what we
meant to pretend.
But that sound blinding me
in its secret
leaves us bare and
light again.

july 3, 2010