Theme: Love

Erased Like Perfect

Thursday morning again,
aluminum-green and matted,
dead though listening for Sophia
to click-step the short hall,
orange and erased like perfect pacifism.

She won't come again after today,
vein-gnawed and mealy,
I will miss her.

Thomas called at 9, his voice thimble-bushed,
hazel-doored noise murdering
simple words in machine-red rows.
he asked what I was reading.

I answered, myself, Sophia and cigarette packs,
things that taste like almonds and warm glass.
Sophia, you have gone, your winter-mouth
is pouring chicken bones '

your lovers are drowning;
I am crying in your sizzle-blue ears,
listening to beautiful violent colors
of your wrist-snap literature.


More By  :  Michael Paul Ladanyi

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