He says God
is every old man
I have always seen sitting
alone on a park bench.
He believes my silence
is his new religion,
my body, his salvation,
and prayers-
the reflections
of what he sees
in my eyes.
ii.
In a bed he bought
in Chelsea,
he is naked and woolly
and semi-drunk,
remembering a life before me.
He sucks my nipple
like a sticky-sweet date,
then pushes away
Hungarian newspapers
to make a place for himself
between my legs -
in window-light he warns me
this love might kill him.
iii.
Walls have no character
until they have felt the fist
of passion and principle.
He sleeps
as I read his words in afterglow,
fascinated with the fear
that one day
my home might be his battle field.
Bronze trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
i'll be by your poetry
- this speaks volumes and all of it is brilliant!
