Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
If it’s not a grainy,
Sun-shy letter, stuffed in a shoebox,
Move after move,
Almost forgotten,
Or a foggy evening
Overlooking the Edinburgh center,
Hands locked, creeping quietly between the mausoleums,
Trespassing, sharing.
Silent, yet staring at the cages
Of the dead. (Their
mortsafes, their iron ribs,
Hoping to spare one last indignity. A leg torn here,
A body resurrected there,
A fresh, shining corpse sold to a medical school
Otherwise. )
If it’s not
Strip poker on a gnarled shag carpet
Or
Watching you spin yourself
And shake to fits of giggles
As this boomerang in my impatient grip
Remains determined
To exist solely
As a stick,
If it’s not even a gram
Of disarming, aching hope,
If all it is,
From word to word,
(these disposable and effortless words)
Is lather,
The dull, warm compress of common talk,
And no blade,
Then stop, Now.
Let us see each other.
Let us be loud, bracing.
And let us love clearly again.
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