Clara Burghelea, Summer 2017


We are not coeval, you and I,
A plume of smoke rises west
Of our mapless walk of stars.

Shipwrecked, the sun knows fact and sense.
Glassed in dreams,

The intellect dances among words of ash,
And death is a drum of little pounds.

Even so, I am to find you on sidewalks
And roads we named and washed
In unspoken, instrumental intimacies.



It is a sin to damage the spine,
It is a blessing to ravage the leaves.
I would take your dog-eared love
To all the cold stares lingering,
Without the sudden urge to taint.
I shall not be consigned to silent
Prison or oblivion, dust on heart.
I will not stand a vessel of static
Paper, trapped on a shelf of ache.
I want to be wounded, split in two,
Taped, inhabited, marked, and slit.
Have my essence inhaled and then,
Crushed by the weight of passion,
Old-fashioned way and exposed
To your hands, eyes and breath,
Bandaged by will and twisted
By power of redeeming lust.
I want your palms to bruise
My world of words untamed
And this feel of cloth in your
Fingertips to wear us down.

Promote. Poetry.
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