I see myself far off, in a mirror
that has lost its shine.
What time is it?
What year? I stand, naked,
at the sink of a hotel room somewhere,
wringing a cloth. You lie on the bed.
What are you watching?
You know my body
better than I, where it aches,
when it lied. A certain silken gleam:
from even further back, I remember
a suture of railroad track
trying to bind some siding of civilization to a tumbleweed, as if that would hold.
It held, scar on my desert of a heart.
Love, how many years till--
an ocean away
and no doctor at hand
in a strange country-- you knelt over me
in a rented room and removed a few stitches
from my skin? You showed
the awkwardness of one
who couldn't sew, the tenderness
of one who'd never ripped anything out.
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