Tags
conversations with imaginary sisters, deathblow, flog the fog, Grace, more than spilled ink, nostalgia, poem, Poetry, praise, sonnet
Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl
had been drained from the sky and the crows rose
in their trees to caw gray into the world
I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,
in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia
curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog
while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia
of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog
a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that
you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days
of crow caws and ice match my libido.
Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat
retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise
pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.
