Sunday, January 9, 2011


by Mick Tomlinson

oh earnest lover,
squelched and fastened to drought,
you split apart
and both halves make me
stupidly happy.

this frail thing,
indigenous and hunted by spirit,
cloaked by our love
and tricked by the hues coming in
through my window.

I think I may be
bordering the edge of narration,
talking more/loving less
while I cushion these gills
with water.

listen lover, I am your property
finger by finger,
hollowed chest,
four arms worship the moon.

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