Dirt

not flowers with their imagined hearts
not tending to exploding boobs on a brutish hand
not fabricating in my favorite telenovela
all made-up like an ironic trophy wife
does nothing but make me
miss all the sex…

I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
before you claim your discovery
covering your stems, trampling your pieces
filling them with the sum of this sickle tree.

I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
so I can feel by some miracle
I can feel like I can touch you

before we’re both filled with this fruitless mirage
this purposeful pursuit for the world’s perfection
where everything seen is judged whole.

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7 thoughts on “Dirt

  1. Hmm, noone else opinion of this brilliant poem really matters I suspect. What did she think of it? Or perhaps that’s a rude question.

    Indeed, there was blushing and a hiccup involved. Then jokingly, a question, “My stems?” 🙂

    Like

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