untitled #2

She sits and waits.
Day by day the rot climbs a spine-knuckle higher,
rising like smoke.

She is the thigh-hair of old women,
their skin-stretched ears and yellow eyes,

She sits and waits.
She plans her funeral march:
I shall dress primrose and every face shall weep.

©LS 2012

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s