Image for the poem a thousand years between motels

a thousand years between motels

there is moss on the bathroom tile,
 unknown fox-red drops    
 licking the basin's lip...burning,    
the soap in my eyes    
 I dropped   
acid rain    
 it stung, birthed    
 baby sacred leaches in cavities    
of my ciliary body    
and they slip poorly-    
poorly on the ceramic/    
 if i had mouth eyes    
 I would have    
 asked her for the towel...      
but she has pale membranes    
under her lids...    
she calls them    
 she calls them home    
 and they fly back    
 in flute-blue fog.    
we dismember    
our blindness    
it deports    
and serves us
we are nothing more    
than the absence    
 of sight.
Author's Note
inspired by and for randon 'acts' of poetry
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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