Back

     
     

      WAITING, THE HALLWAYS UNDER
      HER SKIN THICK WITH DREAMCHILDREN
      
      Lace grows in her eyes like
      fat wedding,
      she is pretty, has been baking
      
      bisquits of linen to stuff into his mouth
      all her life,
      
      waiting for him.  The hallways
      under her skin are thick with dreamchildren.
      
      Who he is hardly matters, her rooms
      stay for him,
      
      her body crying to be taken
      with rings and furniture, tight behind doors
      
      in a wave of green breath and wild rhythm,
      in a bed of
      lost birds and feathers,
      
      smiling, dying