Monday, March 28, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Carl Phillips, X
Several hours past that
of knife and fork
laid across one another
to say done, X
is still for the loose
stitch of beginners,
the newlywed
grinding next door
that says no one
but you, the pucker
of lips only, not yet
the wounds those lips
may be drawn to. X,
as in variable,
anyone's body, any set
of conditions, your
body scaling whatever
fence of chain-metal Xs
desire throws up, what
your spreadeagled limbs
suggest, falling, and
now, after. X, not
just for where in my
life you've landed,
but here too, where
your ass begins its
half-shy, half-weary
dividing, where I
sometimes lay my head
like a flower, and
think I mean something
by it. X is all I keep
meaning to cross out.
of knife and fork
laid across one another
to say done, X
is still for the loose
stitch of beginners,
the newlywed
grinding next door
that says no one
but you, the pucker
of lips only, not yet
the wounds those lips
may be drawn to. X,
as in variable,
anyone's body, any set
of conditions, your
body scaling whatever
fence of chain-metal Xs
desire throws up, what
your spreadeagled limbs
suggest, falling, and
now, after. X, not
just for where in my
life you've landed,
but here too, where
your ass begins its
half-shy, half-weary
dividing, where I
sometimes lay my head
like a flower, and
think I mean something
by it. X is all I keep
meaning to cross out.
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