by July 3, 2014 0 comments

I rub together words
to get her to come.
First the smoke, then the ember.
Finally a flame remembers her name,
but refuses to tell,
till I spit on the light,
and out it hisses.
Anxious to grope ankles
to swing her inside the cave
to pull through my dream her hair,
rub together words
to get her
together with me to come.
Eager to flee my itch
I scratch but to
ratchet the itch up.

But will never come to scratch
the act of rubbing words together
to get her to come.

editors note:

Fire by friction and poet’s fiction; both an itch we gotta scratch. – mh

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