A Poem by Anon ymojus
The past is a line in the sand; a naked bulb swinging in an empty hall; the taste of your skin when it rains. Sometimes, I pretend to be asleep, eyes closed; the scratch of time cold on my chest. I hear the low whine of a train approaching; the stifled breath of desire; your hand touches mine. I am cloud-sopped, heaven-proof. I will love you when the world is not paying attention; when it turns its eye to the flight of a bird; its ear to the sound of a branch as it snaps in this February wind.