Symptom Unknown
By Glenn Taylor

We always made things more mythic
than they were, swearing on Styx
about promises we would never keep.

We should have died long ago – the wind
carrying our ashes in separate directions,
drowning them, or burning them in atmosphere.

We have exceeded the window of touch;
the feeling of fingers caressing the arms is simply
the body telling us we need to wake up.

But right now, we need this more than anything:
The applehair of skin glowing in sunrise, using body parts
as pillows and teeth as pleasure and pain devices.

The cure is spoken in tongues.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com