Stranded just shy of the horizon at twenty three,
haven’t thought mechanically of sex without a wry
grin for a week – a Cheshire grin at that, and at its
most manifest, believing it still a damn fine
motivator beating anything that came next.
Wondering where this whole tragedy is leading –
aware the fine line between conceding and not
succeeding wilts in the sheets of the tumbled bed
that comes after sex went.
Rising fresh and adamant it won’t be that way
again; and yet, buy me three more drinks and
maybe I’ll think you’re worth the effort.
Is it there – just short of the curve that defines
this low-level orbit I’m gliding, eccentric and
free of spatial influences, the gravity well I am
seeking – will it be where I am liberated?
© 30 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
No comments:
Post a Comment