VINES<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They whispered to each other
what would become lies.
Sometimes they called it love.
Through the years
vines grew on their bed
eventually trapped their skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside them light dimmed.
Sex not a figment
of the imagination,
just another secretion.
A distraction from
inevitable intrusions
of work to do
and bills to pay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thinking made it faster
and money easier
to brave the crowd
and endure each task.
Accomplishment not much
different than insult
\u2026 in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Approving of his warmth and fur
and hardness of his arms,
her eyes promised
sweat in the wind
and the pleasures of the moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They rented a home
and reproduced the future.
She mixed blood into the oatmeal.
He slashed the dirt
with their ancestor’s bones.
If there was a thunderstorm
they flew a kite for electricity
and tried to explain
their childhoods
in between commercials.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every few months
death arrived,
Rarely had a noise.
Nothing lasted.
Only lingered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

copyright 1995, held by author<\/strong><\/p>\n