Tuesday, November 07, 2006


Once she held him in her arms all night
like a sled into the void.
Tangerine lips and white pelt
knocked on the door of her dream -

He signed his name along her back,
lassoes of Indian ink
wrapped around knots of bone;
secrets written in magenta trawls
of nails over skin, blackberries
raised along their scarlet vines,

crumbs and dust
collected in remembrance
of that she cannot name.


Blogger Chris Never said...

superb, you have always been very skilled at painting a picture of such colour and vibrancy and soft sensuality with your words.

And the ending, suitably sad.

Lovely stuff Moon

4:22 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

thanks Chris. I'm not too sure about this one ... weird little pome

11:27 AM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

You are never sure about the fabulous ones, thats why they are fabulous Moon,
because you stretch beyond what you know will work, you explore
you break ground
you make us think

all good

1:07 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

holy smokes!


you're so kind to me ... it's very nice of you, thank you

4:24 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

You are an inspiration to many I would think Moon


5:03 PM  

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