Friday, February 01, 2008

and all the deaths on the beach seem far away,
while he stores a hand grenade in his office desk
chary of protecting the college kids from pillow talk
of stars and garters, bar-be-que sauce dinners

you know best your secrets, your undivulged reminisces,
like the beach in the Iliad upon which the Achaens eat
uncooked spaghetti noodles when they come home from school
awake past bedtime, hungry in a huddle on floor carpet

where "I'm finally alone with you" depends on how you read
stolen heirlooms, looted armaments, or re-captured savagery
of teeth-torn paper and fire-escape entrances; like a sweet,
perfect gentleman, I'll be far away, as you read-after-read.

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