25 March 2010

Push back

assuming every invitation is an attack.
Heretical to profitable situations
though sadly smug with a keyboard on the lap.
Stare at unmoving hands battered
by hangovers otherwise healed yet remains
remain in skin and tables for days.
Wake up from winter a little colder every year
while the sun ends its respite, glaring
new songs echo as I chip away the frost
on the mirror.

No comments: