the scorpions

Listener of The Scorpions

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I love you still —

Whip me again,
So, feel the cutting edge of its lash:
Never hold me
And let there be no warmth as care
Where there lies there what lies between us.

Like two apples, cold and rolled
Against the edge of the
Stored rack of a Sony double-door.
A coat of thin water drops
In thin layers make patterns.

More, like a grunt than a breathing —
I love you still.

Like a cart, beggared by the mules that
Draw it — for an eternity
Perpetuated in an eternity-seeking drag.
Wheels to roll over what, in gleeful spasms,
In arbitrary moments the mules drop off back.

So, there, may you rest to what is
Gentle in soft sleep; that the
Angels may sing you blessings
Where sweet heaven may weep
In death-like collected slumber.


2001 (2012.07.08)

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