April 8
The Pine Box
III.
Streetlights crane their necks,
reedy and skeletal, glowering down at the asphalt,
whispering disapproval and nodding heads
in synchronized spasms.
Showering in the creased and fading glow,
two men dance,
they waltz on the downbeat of gasps and
punctuating droplets of blood,
twisting and bending and responding to
brutal intimacy.
Leaning like tender saplings in the heart
of a blistering typhoon, one man falls,
his hair rupturing in wild explosions
like the outstretched and begging fingers of roots:
the storm-severed muscles of a tree.
The other follows.
Flashing dully in the violated illumination of
the slumped and easy streetlights,
bolts of lightening jackknife open
impaling greedily. The grounded man gasps
and watches roses flourish across his stomach.
A wallet is reverently embraced by stained hands.
Gender:
Points: 27175
Reviews: 387