T.L. Stokes


After we have sex
I am not myself,

there is a seagull
beyond the buoys,

I am layers of naked.

I can't take in
another breath,

they form a line to come out.

River body, warm glacier,
falling fingers, burned lips;

the only language I know
consists of one word sentences,

exclamations in lower registers,
basement songs.

I walk like a drunkard
happy my head hits the ceiling.

This perfume makes me dizzy.

I don't even think how many hours
slipped past the window,

the side yard,
the damp woods,

without even the lace or me knowing
if I'm conscious,

or how many hours left the grass
mussed up, almost flat
where it landed

under the weight of rain.

Location: Snoqualmie, Washington
Occupation: Writer
Email: pongee7@yahoo.com
Publications: Ancient Wind Press, Pierian Springs, The 2River View, Comrades Press, Ludlow Press, The Gin Bender Review, etc.

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