Author: jat sapphire
Poem. I bet you can guess who's speaking, but as he is not named there is no copyright problem.
Every six-o'clock shave,
what a job! Scraping off
mold-green scales I'd grown
while I slept. Then all day
shrink and grow, hiding
under a smooth face.
until I met you.
Now like a clock I strike my hours down
and ring them out. At each pendulum swing
you spear me with your light. In the morning
especially, when you lie facing away
(the curtains, almost closed, don't show the sky)--
I watch you breathe, thinking if I had known
death was so easily beaten, I would never
have had to run so far, so long.
Let me call you this once, now that sun
arrows you under our sheets,
You bring me out of all my nightmare lairs
and let me touch your light-washed, stone-cut skin
--me, with the mustache that makes you laugh.