Today's poem is by Cullen Bailey Burns
Am smitten, I said, and the grass lay still,
and him on it, and I barely lied.
I couldn't stand his shoulders, how
they rounded, how the past tense
would have ached in them. The true word
never left its place beneath my tongue
as the sun cast down gold, September,
and the crickets sang,
telling us how the cold would come
from the warm tangle of our arms
and legs entwined in what?
We couldn't stop imagining.
I lay beside him, my hands cold,
wishing largesse from fall,
from the future, until our silence
opened the day wide (as lightning
does the sky sometimes) and he said
am? was? what does it matter with this thirst?
Copyright © 2013 Cullen Bailey Burns All rights reserved
New Issues Poetry & Prose
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