| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
by Tory Dent1
Only my mouth taking you in, the greenery splayed deep green. Within my mouth, your arm inserted, a stem of gestures, breaking gracefully2. Into each other we root arbitrarily, like bushes, silken, and guttural. Palaver3, we open for the thrill of closing, for the thrill of it: opening. The night was so humid when I knelt on the steps, wet and cold, of prewar stone. A charm bracelet4 of sorts we budded, handmade but brazen5, as if organic. I cannot imagine the end of my fascination6, emblazoned but feather-white too. The gold closure of this like a gold coin is, of course, ancient. Why can't experience disseminate7 itself, be silken and brazen yet underwater? A miniature Eiffel Tower, an enameled8 shamrock, a charm owned by its bracelet. 点击收听单词发音
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
上一篇:Repairwork 下一篇:Painters |
- 发表评论
-
- 最新评论 进入详细评论页>>