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