Susan Gorgioski
AND STILL, THIS TIME
The wet plover on the ledge
nests easy.
A piece of the moon
falls on the roof
of your mouth.
And still
we roll on this too soft bed.
Your face turns away:
lamp, wall, sky, floor --
hurl wishes at the fallen.
Jolt the mirror, out
there--see:
a hand holding up a lamppost;
a pair of boots waiting at the corner.
And still
this vulgar rain; a hand shakes
the door, and still
your heart beats inside a drawer.
Email: wisp@iprimus.com.au
