Poem: Blonde

In the corner of a surge (introspection inside me), on a
ripped and rusty shade with springs coiled and dust
sits blonde and short (and in my innermost sinews
converge and diverge) with adorable locks and a glow
that hides spider cloths and complexity … hardly
known within (and my own complacency, a possible
comfort) emerges and amor comes only to melt as if in
Speak for a listen …
if not for a few minutes —
Never to be seen again …
and you’re gone
into some corner, with gauze bone white and tender
kisses — hardly known,
but an abyss (touch that freezes). I am lost in a vessel
stopping anchor for to plow honey locks,
pure in my mouth — not like catnip nor parley, but
resemble me a puzzle, in the confusion —
An interplay of lashes et J’entre dans la langue
ˆ”I’m open, fish around for a speckled note of
reassurance, it’s not too late, never touched lips —”
Sailing into warmth dissolution,
a brush briefly with others

by Greig Roselli

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