Our Ears Are Seashells
post a comment | posted Jul 16
The room is filled with sticking drinks
And glazed-over eyes. My head
Is full and deep, my chest
Is colored sea.
A wake of cries and Christian cliches
Wash over me.
Old names cascade outside where
Night-lights peer through tree limbs,
Setting testosterone on shelves;
A showing silent film.
Female arms rest on my shoulders;
They spell a sentence of discontent while
Grass blades bear morning dew
Or stifled smiles.
The night flows in, then out;
Morning tide.
Our eyes are open wide.
