by James Belflower
We read obsession over the
Sunday comics; "but why does he
squat outside?" Questions still bucking
and braying; my eyes are strong but void
of answers. It must be 1:30. Call me
"babe" again; I love that. The sofas'
crushed as circus women slip
from the trapeze; words are nurses
with brawny shoulders, who maintain an
aroma of cinnamon. "I don't?" . . . sleep now,
I will have all the answers
on bright Tuesday.
© 2007 prickofthespindle.com
James Belflower's work appears or is forthcoming in: Jacket, Octopus,