Lethe
by Eric Mohrman

lines off
the milky formica—titian

             light slatted

through venetian
blinds—wipe

our noses with
arced wrists
& sniff
&

run your
eyes      right          through              me

the
back-throat
drip,     draped           moaning              over
the couch’s
arm, with
me behind—imagine the

            rhythmic-thump

motion

is

swimming a
desolate
street     in          the              moonlight—

            obsidian river—

we love
to
love & not
remember

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com