the isms of a Cretan poet

I am like a line

Fine but drawn to an end

Wet and Indigo Ink

Darker than stain

We left each other’s arms

More open than closed

But a door unhinged and teasing

Adored swinging wooden tunes

Of swooning hollow oak

Choking my ears and tongue

That used to be yours

But for a


Drum Drum

My skin’s pulled tight

And pounds like empty’s


If you could rock me while I lose you

Till hurt fades to forget

The antidote to remembering

But not yet

We are simply one letter

Of a word in our own sentence

There will be sense

Because it could never

Have been written any other way


We were luminous


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