Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Cave Dweller

Blackness reflects in droplets that
fall from stalactites like uvula saliva in
                              a late-night argument

There is no plaster in this cavern -
just cold, wet rock trickling with
                               igneous sweat

Our objections built and built and
with our tongues we slapped each other
                               with the air

My hands are red with bruises and
scratches from clawing at the rocks
                               with blind possibilities


No words       chalkish scratches on
the rocks, but I think that someone might
come across these marks some day

Someone might come across this some day
                                    someone might decipher my language






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