The Nap

Music filled streets,

cloudy skies, chicken soup –

blended in a cup.

The night is approaching my eyelids

at mid-day.

Sovereign stars of the night

gather and swirl in my chest,

pulling my spine through an infinite space

where dreams are born,

and I pull them through the gateway

into this sodden world

where all dreams belong.

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Pour Homme

Describe.
The stillness ...
The coolish morning in the winter
smells like spring but
it's not quite here yet.

I dissolve into latte, and
don't wish to look back
under the night-sheets where
under raw flesh remains
the invisible woman.


Lavender breath, vanilla skin
marinated in Irish cream
and ... nuts.


Sometimes, I want to be a motorcycle -
polished and loved,
fixed and reassembled
down to the last screw ... but

I'm 

only 

a woman.

Published also by POETS' BASEMENT 

http://www.counterpunch.org/2013/04/05/klimenko-chatterjee-and-vongsaravanh/

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