I have peeled off my shirt
Like the going down
Of the sun
Dropped into a pile
Stitches and cotton,
Ribs
making faces
underskin
There are voices
in the smallest hours
Who tumble from
your lips
Sleepwalkers unbuttoned
in the streetlight.
My arms are not long
enough for all of them
but I have tried,
my ribs meeting your spine,
A lover in the
Tourniquet position
And in the mornings
Your piled shirts peal
a reverie
#NaPoWriMo 2014 poem number 27
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2014