Sunday Scribble.

a grave at Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow

Intention


if I held your heart

felt it pulse against my palms

or balanced it on fingertips

to watch its push and pull

would it cut, all points and edges

try to wriggle out, become

a flopping love-fish on the floor

ooze and bleed desire, effusive

quiver, gel-like, undecided

let me see inside it, search its rooms

or offer nothing, not a clue of any kind

but make instead a flatline of itself

and wait to be set down again?

-- smh

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inspired by

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at  The Mag...

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