The glass

Posted on Jun 1, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The glass slides shut
And I see gold rims on your shoes
And —No Talking— in your eyes
While your ankles
are at angles
that most men would sell their souls for
And your knees,
they’re too friendly to each other for my liking.
I could eat you.
The glass slides again and you leave
without a look
And I file you away under
“fuck”
Later.
When we’re home and we don’t talk about it
Since our breath will talk enough
And your knees will talk in different ways.