Since representation
Is often labeled
Ungodly, pardon me
For my sins.
At the worst times,
Spiced thoughts accompany
My empty, double twin bed,
My crowded head.
Her aroma is
Rolled up inside my covers,
Like the smell of earth
After hard rainfall.
She has a way of
Tangling my dreams,
A citrus flavor of tangerines
So subtle, and present.
The **** sweetness that
Won’t leave your mouth,
Even if you taste
Something else.
How lovely is a full-blown crush?
Like hot cider
On a chilled December day,
It can be so delicious,
And scold your mouth.
I watch the warm,
Vaporous breath become visible
In the frosty air of the holiday season,
And walk from place to place.
I feel the cold of my belt buckle,
Hear the crunch of frigid under feet,
And know that
Winter is now.
I try thinking my way into happiness,
And out of loneliness,
But it’s not quite for me,
And I find myself listening to Chet, again.
Of all the places
To lose myself in contemplation,
It’s not so bad here,
Under the pull of this crescent moon.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Since representation
Is often labeled
Ungodly, pardon me
For my sins.
At the worst times,
Spiced thoughts accompany
My empty, double twin bed,
My crowded head.
Her aroma is
Rolled up inside my covers,
Like the smell of earth
After hard rainfall.
She has a way of
Tangling my dreams,
A citrus flavor of tangerines
So subtle, and present.
The **** sweetness that
Won’t leave your mouth,
Even if you taste
Something else.
How lovely is a full-blown crush?
Like hot cider
On a chilled December day,
It can be so delicious,
And scold your mouth.
I watch the warm,
Vaporous breath become visible
In the frosty air of the holiday season,
And walk from place to place.
I feel the cold of my belt buckle,
Hear the crunch of frigid under feet,
And know that
Winter is now.
I try thinking my way into happiness,
And out of loneliness,
But it’s not quite for me,
And I find myself listening to Chet, again.
Of all the places
To lose myself in contemplation,
It’s not so bad here,
Under the pull of this crescent moon.
Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009
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