in the flames, eating the city
one street light at a time.
The gothic scene scrapes
the nail polish off. Pulling
hair one strand at a time
to feel the true grief, evolving
in a state of pleasure. Licking
the lips of an era, caressing
the bosom of a toughened
soul. Wrapping the present
in the rhythm, I kiss the neck
of a blurred an anticipation.
Deidre Grotbo
