whenever she will
By Henry Richmond
Sunken circus lion sorrow
bleeds into the hairs on his brow
in hating the clock on its shelf
as envious seconds persist
fulfilling their cardinal vow
he hopes that each hand hates itself.
as forty-eight hours before,
its stern face was irrelevant
and her wine warmth pleased his shoulder
when for hours he would adore
her blind Stanislavskian poise
with a stare that made his soul older
Scorching beneath its meridian tower,
the swinging of rhythm now
breaches and crumbles
his fortress of temperance;
yearn for the blues of midnight!
Lost on the plains of each desolate hour,
when lifeless in bed at night
unwashed and crumpled
his sheets are indifferent,
knowing they’ll never be folded.