deepundergroundpoetry.com
late
I was late to the crucifixion.
the morning sky was wrinkled
and your watch had been laundered and pressed
upon my forehead, a light grew up and in
blasting matter on the headboard.
I watched his body fold over soldiers
white, wet slapping limbs upon leather
eyes open and stuck dry in my pockets.
I believed then you might save my seat at the opera
a song about being a child and making a man
played between your fingerslips
the melody to graze my forgetfulness
I remembered there is no time inside
a glass trapping benevolence
Revelation sees the dead are dark
and that the moon is not a star.
the morning sky was wrinkled
and your watch had been laundered and pressed
upon my forehead, a light grew up and in
blasting matter on the headboard.
I watched his body fold over soldiers
white, wet slapping limbs upon leather
eyes open and stuck dry in my pockets.
I believed then you might save my seat at the opera
a song about being a child and making a man
played between your fingerslips
the melody to graze my forgetfulness
I remembered there is no time inside
a glass trapping benevolence
Revelation sees the dead are dark
and that the moon is not a star.
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