T.L. Stokes

BASEMENT SONGS

After we have sex
I am not myself,

there is a seagull
beyond the buoys,

I am layers of naked.

I can't take in
another breath,

they form a line to come out.

River body, warm glacier,
falling fingers, burned lips;

the only language I know
consists of one word sentences,

exclamations in lower registers,
basement songs.

I walk like a drunkard
happy my head hits the ceiling.

This perfume makes me dizzy.

I don't even think how many hours
slipped past the window,

the side yard,
the damp woods,

without even the lace or me knowing
if I'm conscious,

or how many hours left the grass
mussed up, almost flat
where it landed

under the weight of rain.

Location: Snoqualmie, Washington Occupation: Writer Email: pongee7@yahoo.com Publications: Ancient Wind Press, Pierian Springs, The 2River View, Comrades Press, Ludlow Press, The Gin Bender Review, etc.

- October 2003 - Myth Ferraris and First Communions Fractured Sestina Don't Research and Dire Predictions Dog Walking With no wolf to guard the door Basement Songs Nottiteln #33 Teacup