http://bit.ly/29rfvM1
the more traps they set
or fall into; yours
is as ripe as a Georgia peach
in the fat heat of August.
My face still drips
with your juice; my hands
sticky as an ice cream cone
in the hands of a child
who does not know that time
exists.
God, like me
& your father,
is a fiendish
romantic, a comedic genius
falling all over ourselves
to get next to a chilly woman
who heats her burner
with a Memphis beat.
I don't mind your lying
as long as you're telling me your truth;
I don't mind the wind teaching a song
how to sing; I don't mind the distance
as long as you keep me near.
I open your secrets
with a carelessness
born of fever &
forgetfulness.
I touch all your places
that I remember. And
don't mind inventing
more lies
to fatten
in the sun.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016
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