dear sir,
have you not noticed
we rarely speak
anymore?
intercourse
fleeting as
a solar eclipse
and just as
marvelous.
our bond like
a stray thread
of my red lace
panties being
drawn by the
urgency of our
devotion.
unraveling, the
undergarment
losing its shape,
while the trees
thaw and begin
to bloom.
until one day
it will run out of
string the way an
hour glass spills its
last grains of sand.
Published by Derailleur Press in their May 28th issue of The Rail.