She reaches out to embrace me.

She kisses me upon my mouth.

She unbuttons her blouse

And takes off her bra.

Unbuckles her belt.

Unsnapping her pants.

She lowers her panties

Poems spill like cold blood on a winter morning.

The two of us tangled in old linen.

Heavy breathing.

Wet and sloppy.

The journal of destination inside my aging drugstore brain.

Refills and Refills and Refills!!!

The aging prophet extends its wings of electricity.

Unwrapping an old bar of dark chocolate.

An empty bottle of red wine lies in the corner beside the bed.

The radio broadcasts a moment of silence.

The light of the sacred lamb.

And the female ghost begins a high pitched song.

I am late with a cloth bag.

Mail delivered to the wrong address.

Credit cards . . . secret messages.

A strewn pair of empty trousers.

I am reluctant to sing.

A large black bird alights upon the window sill.

A secondhand poem in its claw.

The candle slowly burns through the night.

My aorta bursts.

I lie dead with an electric radio.

Screaming late night subways.

A graveyard of yellow pages.

Unclaimed skulls of Europa.

Peter Leon

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