the south of it, quick and <br /> dangerous, <br />ruined up to streetlamps cold as ice <br />make it slower than, <br />quieter than, <br />straighter than the million tracks <br />what little good <br />in a lowly pit <br />that rocks itself to sleep <br />a black front a wall of webs <br />brown water lakes and gritty teeth <br /> make it happen to me <br /> can i desire this thing <br />when it's murder to believe, <br /> murder to be leaving <br />no skin like this no original <br />granted <br />comfort <br />to join it <br />and fortify a stray body, <br />half warmed up <br />half unrepaired <br />not the summer seventeen, not ever <br />the plans it shatters <br />I can't love it if it cuts so deep <br />not how it burns, but how the burn heals <br />not the time it snatches from <br />finite places, the green air, the dying flute <br /> can i wait for it <br /> if i rot denying it <br />no, i don't really ever <br />begin to change<br /><br />Scott Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nightmare-37/
