IV
The smoke that curls on your peach-pulsed eyes
Has a way of unfeathering my postpartum glossary of demented words,
And those from your local tripod
Blowsed with the dewy caress of my knotted nose.
.
III
Strange strings harbor our crossed fingers
-and Beethoven, this is not a love poem
These pious stanzas press words against the quiet air.
.
II
The repeated hums of pocketless sounds
Makes a lot of cents
.
I
I'm the uncovered bloom of prehistory.
.
George O. Victor
*The Ghostwriter*👻
©2018