Christopher Davis


 


Two Romantic Individualists

 

1.  Solitude

Culture; it’s what beach trash lacks.
In heat, those glad body bags shriek.

I’m all ear,
but, I fear,

cowering beneath pink brelly,
I’m involved quietly, purely

poetry, unseen sun queen,
silk blouse orange, open,

adorned with sunflowers, crooked, blurry, 
looking not unlike sons, surfers, bending

over, jabbing lit matches at my belly
button, blubber burning, holy, holy.

 

2.  Divorce

Ice-condomed twigs
wiggle, dripping.

A robin flits, tip
to tip to tip.  O

well, we woke up, crawled from bed, temped
for separate firms, evolved apart.  Still, I call,

come, come, buddy, sniff my basil, that smell,
dirty candy, free, again, again, in spring melt.

Hear ye, hear ye this here request: sex,
yes, illegal tender summer suppleness,

thy generosity, breath, gently risky,
breath, my old fangs bloody, hairy.

 




© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review