nemophilist
“When you’ve got nothing left, all you can do is get into silk underwear and start reading Proust.”
Cherry bomb sunset,
sand-speckled archway
Blanche and Noire trot
quick and soft, nose to a
palm. Their muzzles wet.
Dark grapes and pitted
dates. Dining by flicker
red, blue, green, and
gold. Turmeric lattes.
Eye on the floor.
Possession is taste-
less. I take khobz to my
escorts who lounge in
the stairwell. They do
not whine of loneliness.
Windows left open
to a starless sky. The
breathlessness of
becoming sounds like
a sinkhole in the sea.
Lungs rise and fall
against a curtain of
bone and stone, and
I wonder about the
quiet effort of it all.
Photo source.
