Saturday, June 07, 2003

POEM OF THE DAY Sting   I taste the bees hived asleep in your lips under the fog from the keeper’s smoke pot.   A wind whistles its prayers down the savannah of my thighs, stringing audible beads on a rosary of sighs, and I look over your shoulder, see a purpling horizon, a thunderstorm bruise on my inward sky.   And did you know? Lightning rises from the ground to sting the cloud.   In the shocked afterlight I want to walk naked through the shimmer of the swarm. Dana Pattillo, 1988 (PoD 4) 11:01:33 AM    comment []