Grimshaw - Scarborough Yew Court

It’s chilly in here, she said

to his mouth; teeth jagged

like small rocks in a line,

too many layers to count,

craggy stalactites meant to

work for her; their breath

fluffy in the air, equations

in iambic, solutions, fictive,

in special situations, math

a true language, he thought,

smothered in dirt, soiled in

truth; so they passed the can,

once to the room, again in

the aftermath of misgiving:

a maven of momentum, like

a pilot steering clouds, like

she was gone again, again,

he thought, the stairs treads

passable yet steep, the trip

smelted in collapsible color,

the bedroom melting under

stammering motion, the bed

still warm, hot to the touch,

his voice ringing out in the

darkest desert, hidden camps

Bedouins bragging, shook,

shaken, awakened, monsters

travel fast, brains are daffodils,

lit by sunny explosions, night

bothers terror, tears dripping,

frozen, specious, magnets for

dust, tonight may never end.

~ by Shawn M. Young on January 4, 2018.

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