by Shayne Edwin Pruett
we take life in a series of exhalation through thunderstorm,
burning in the smiles we keep from each other every night.
step to me in broken glances and speak to me in whispers,
the trouble with a mask is - it never changes.
you and i are only as real as the gold lining allows us to be,
chanting ancient scriptures we used to pine for daily.
and though the wolf at the door is most certainly bad news,
for you, baby, i'll only keep him waiting a minute.
from fog to snow and everything below,
we come to know, we came to know -
all the beautiful things that ever kept our fingers,
one on top of another - left and right, up and down,
elbows at our backs and smiles for days.
the night i forget the smell of your neck is the night i collapse,
a series of belt-buckle kneecaps to snap into place -
your teeth a welcomed, bottle-cap enchantment.