The dog will sit on command
but you will not ask him to save us
My cigarette smells like grief,
as all of them do since quitting
means I light them only on storm days
The best place I put myself today was
under the oak in this small town cemetery
where the beer tasted like addiction
and the nightingales sang out
go home
Monday, July 26, 2010
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3 comments:
a resounding yes, oh yes! your words are flying like ten pins lately. i long for that title, though.
"go home" has such a mournful sound, as if the author wishes she could find that place again.
"Untitled" delivers a punch in the stomach, the good kind---this is how I measure whether or not a poem hits or misses. Such a controlled sort of hauntedness carried in each line. Thank you!
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