In want of no plums

 

Maybe this is what it takes
to bring tears:
two dogs humping out front
a fresh bud springing
from something thought gone.
I have become the confidant
in love stories men tell,
not the plum they want picked.

Night after night, dreambound,
I speak to the lost dead,
wake, hope for a moment
they're still there,
trapped in some 
hidden orgasm of time.

Awareness rides the first 
morning raindrop as I still straddle 
then and now, clutching the dark 
sweating horse of destiny.

Illusions re-cloaking, I toss apples,
strip to my nakedness, walk out
to embrace the rain.





Pris Campbell
©2009

 

Published in The Wild Goose Review 2010


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