s i x p o e m s
| Like One Concussed Like one concussed, he wakes. Where's this? A hole's bombed in the barracks. He knows damnwell there is no window there. This quiet should not be. He sweats. The tanks have left without me, one lost survivor. His hot cheek grazes lace and lofted down; the blue wall's whispering. Bare feet, deep mirror's face, his, his, his. Oh I do thee wed, this place. |
Eleanor Ross Taylor
