She ran her autumn hand across the ashes of his rusty flames adding to the million etchings of mapping fingerprints and meatlike nightmares. He fell beneath the weighted mortgage of her wordy smile, transcended through thin glass clouds, into the flat, kneeling breath of difficult sighs and blinking love. Dreaming of the phantom pillow and the painted echo that dies upon opened palms and silences the ease from fence to tomb.
Between these walls
carcasses
of interest
and intent
lay
neatly netted
in corners
chewing on chips
of nicotine
white dreams
While the rigorous
laughter
of alone
basks in
the anemic rays
that puncture
through
the gray-skinned
windows
and touch down
with cleaver ambiance
only to drown
with no last words
and no disguise
And night
dresses the world
in ink
and pulls
the covers
over
the shadows
and feeds
its brood
with chalk
and wet sighs
leaving
footprints
on
water
for me
to follow
to the
spontaneous
awareness
of breath
and eyes.
If you are interested in reading more of Gary Kane's poetry, he has published a chapbook, which is available by sending $7 to Gary at 552 Woodland Drive, South Hempstead, NY 11550.
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Letter to the Author:
Gary Kane at basquiat67@hotmail.com