The builder of all things lives in me along with the seven disoriented ships he anchored in the port last spring.
The summer dried the sea.
The wood of the ships got rotten.
The masts got buried in the wickedness of empty sunsets.
It is winter.
It is Wednesday.
I was in the washing room. I saw you folded my laundry.
In the library the Orphic Egg suspends itself from the ceiling fan.
Under its pale light I study my hands with the same precision the child studies his.
I shed my clothes as snakes shed their skin.
I feel your index finger contouring my spine.
One by one your writings penetrate my mind.
The dimorphism of your poems spiral in two directions: torrential love and logical deductions.
They are both the product of your brain. I cannot kill them. I must allow them to exit.
The object of my poetry?
Not to concede…
Please continue reading here
@Gabriela Marie Milton