CHAPTER EIGHT
Morning, sweet in the arms of a new day
Inside eyes
mercury rising
When on other days there is a palette of cold hues
cold enough to close my heart,
now there is pained heat
I stroke the faces of the dead
seeing visions in their eyes
cheeks with putrid stains
teeth no longer bite
remembering is a rancid act
leave it to the vultures and the rats
and brave men on another day
Now the prick needs pleasure
like that might heal the wound
or persuade the body to forget
or remind it not to remember
“Amen,” J.T. Greenway said reading my latest poem. He looked far away. On the porch that meant staring into those green trees that seemed to have more power to heal than either my words, or my thighs.
“Am I too far inside you?” I asked.
“As far as I’m willing to let y
