by gm

Nathaniel G. Moore


I remember now, instances ago

near the fabulous false decorative tree,

as she shredded the buttered toast

in a fit against her soft lips,

and when closed, these lips formed

a temporary pink rose

and her nipples slept well

under incandescent gown,

which by now phantoms

on a floor somewhere,

beneath all my derangement.

The outlaw garment, once removed,

revealed a suggestive corporeal estate

as if she was preparing to feed

in a maternal role pantomiming

a dirty balance of sustenance and eros

now my inadequacy rises

now my duress circulates

and the potion of hope vanishes

the vanity of defeat and predictive flaws

self-propel: I am the designer,

but cannot feel the plan

for all I feel is love.