Poem 145

dancesofzola

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waiting as the bird waits (for permission)

this may be the last room
these the last shadows
on polished wood
your bracelets on this table
(yes and you traced
with your finger
circles in the grain of pine)
the birds you painted
across the wall
the bowls you made
these yellow flowers
this air on my skin
as you pass
this need to taste your teeth
to read the maps of your mouth
to press into you
to eat your hair
this stained floor
and your feet
blue veined and painted
this may be the last time
of waiting
for the shift of air
as you open the door
from the street

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