Sunday, October 28, 2012

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between

This dull sweat, the scent of myself between
the clothing and the seat. How the Buddhas line
themselves on the windowsill and the yellow light
peeks into her eyes directly! The angel's arrows

are sharp and pierce the outer surfaces of
the architecture. If the light were not directed
through the tall windows the art would not work.
I'm breathing and coughing, the coffee turns brown

and black in the bottom of the cup. I smell garlic
and cheese, the days are colder without you
to hold and taste, without your porcelain skin

and exposed breast. O how I breathe the weather
that torments whole communities! O how the dull
and damp light does not meet my appetite!

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