Pattern

we are full of tiny punctures
lost among coarse objects
                  somewhat passive in sharp embrace
                  we hold the course
the angles turn, return to narrow lanes
                  like images you trace
      on my constricted lungs

south is somewhere below my feet
                  and the atlas only shows the larger streets
      navigated by our fingertips across the dash
directing in stilted morse, we tap
                  against each other’s palms

I seep petroleum
from the inner reaches of my eyes
            sinking into the equivalent of what you hide
beneath your simple (not at all unlovely)
                  flowered cotton dress, and I could
      walk into the night without a word

where the signal flare declaims x marks the spot
                              no material is quite as soft
            as your felt-skin, a sudden enclosure
built of glass cocoons us
            in cathedral quiet

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About QuietMonolith

I was just a mild mannered young man living in Portland, OR, until one day....POOF! I turned into a crazy, nefarious, thieving, drug-crazed lunatic. I had lots of therapy and spent many months in hospitals and treatment facilities. Eventually, at the end of my rope, I decided to change everything. With the support of my family and friends, I have embarked on a quest to achieve optimum wellness. I am making radical changes in every part of my life, and in the way I approach the world in which I live. Follow my blog, The Wellness Quest, to experience what happens when a desperate addict takes hold of his destiny and devotes all his time and energy toward making a full recovery. I am also a writer and poet. Follow my blog, What We Left Behind in Crowded Rooms, to take a look at some of my recent poems.
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