Chilled shiver, hot flash:
She is before me, and afterwards
I can't look away from her shadow
cast in skipped-pebble curves across
the gray seas of my custard brain.
Suddenly S's are simply the audience's hisses,
and all of this, it's a mere excuse
to whisper and wish speech could express
this is not a simple thing, (only
so much more this means than says--
an ant is to God as these words to my heart
surging and sinking with precipitous
need-- need to enwrap, envelope, trap,
swish, and like an alcoholic wine taster
spit.
poem
written by JASON PAUL FOX.
You
MUST credit my authorship when reproducing this poem in any way!
Violators are prosecuted, no joke!
I'm living off the generosity of plagiarists now!
(It's OK to give my poem to friends or people at school, if you credit me and
don't make money off it)
copyright
2007 Jason Paul Fox