what kind of nonsense is this
whenever the mood fits
only when convenient,
without regard for the other parts
waiting,
anticipating
for what, exactly
other than
some displaced tingling
in an area we're not that comfortable with
or wish to talk about
out loud

they dance around the phantom sounds
of moonlight's bliss,
astonished by their nakedness
we watch and stare
or at least that's what we tell ourselves,
as we press through years of unopened mail

knowing all the while
above the dashboard swings
the best of everything,
it's no surprise.
eyes don't lie ...

07/10/2009

Posted on 07/11/2009
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