after The Question's Moot by Jonathan Wonham
culinary bruises, there's the space between
her names, heavy and constantly
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
once swallowed, the question's rather less
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
becomes moot.
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1 comment:
Wow. Cool! Love this little paragraph. And your email about Toronto. We miss you in Paris! Great lingo here, J
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