Sylvia Cycle II

The mushy muffled roar of the occasional car
Never hushes nor seems to spy
Sylvia and I
Lying beneath the corner light
Tracing the slashes of silver
Bleeding through the naked night.

The wiry wet razors
Pickle the flesh within our mashed hands,
Tickle her skin
Sprawled like ivory pressed thin
Over the muddy marshlands.

I swallow her laughter without measure
And roll
Like a drunk pauper
Desperate to cover his last spilt treasure.




11/1/03