вавилонська бібліотека

Even the Dust
Nicole W. Lee

Beneath the flesh
of sunset, I lead

                                    you to the park
                                    amidst the entrails

of summer. Light
tongues through

                                    the trees’ ribs.
                                    Your body spilled

with the wine
of horizon.

                                    I sit up into
                                    a cymbal of cicadas,

and baby,
I’ve no regrets.

                                    The past so far
                                    behind us

it’s no longer
in colour.

                                    The future
                                    so wide open

I can see
all its teeth.

                                    You kiss the refuse
                                    of my wrist

and I mouth
your meat’s brown.

                                    I just want to be
                                    loved without

being shredded
into pieces.

                                    Below a fork
                                    of light,

you feed the offal
of my fingers

                                    between the ruin
                                    of your lips.

Because loving
in spite of slaughter

                                    means loving
                                    everything.

And I want
to be loved.

                                    How cicadas shelter
                                    even their shrillest voices.

How the sky
to colour the evening

                                    gathers even
                                    the dust.

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253 viewsNov 18 at 00:05

Even the Dust
Nicole W. Lee

Beneath the flesh
of sunset, I lead

                                    you to the park
                                    amidst the entrails

of summer. Light
tongues through

                                    the trees’ ribs.
                                    Your body spilled

with the wine
of horizon.

                                    I sit up into
                                    a cymbal of cicadas,

and baby,
I’ve no regrets.

                                    The past so far
                                    behind us

it’s no longer
in colour.

                                    The future
                                    so wide open

I can see
all its teeth.

                                    You kiss the refuse
                                    of my wrist

and I mouth
your meat’s brown.

                                    I just want to be
                                    loved without

being shredded
into pieces.

                                    Below a fork
                                    of light,

you feed the offal
of my fingers

                                    between the ruin
                                    of your lips.

Because loving
in spite of slaughter

                                    means loving
                                    everything.

And I want
to be loved.

                                    How cicadas shelter
                                    even their shrillest voices.

How the sky
to colour the evening

                                    gathers even
                                    the dust.

BY вавилонська бібліотека