01 October 2008

rod naquin


rained the day she left,
it is summer finally. george
says now they are trying
to get rid of us. she sat
across me on the burgundy
sofa, the gulf bubbled, you
could feel the air rush
from underneath the anvil
clouds. i coughed and
fell asleep at the bar, told
her i wanted to write more
songs, more poems. uptown
we listened to blue jays; i
am always seeing two birds,
blake says look at those
ducks, two go to the horizon,
two go toward the levee.
she says if you kiss me i
will kill you, i say i am ready
to die. george says he
likes the blue jays, one likes
to sit on the fence in my
backyard. i hear the birds
and crickets talking, pick
up toads and say that i
would like to get under her
dress. the one she cut
shorter, embroidered in green,
porous as canvas. she sat
across me on the burgundy
sofa, i said i dont paint but
id like to paint you; some
are out looking and preparing
for a heaven, but this,
here, now, may be my religion.

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