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Click here"Phrenology is my head game,"
and her kiss landed there, alit
like a mechanical swallow,
storm-wet,
rusting atop me.
She wore mottled lavender and her dove
gray eyes. I drank them
with tea, while she
fingered my scalp's relief map,
read the swells beneath.
"Ice,
a winter curiosity when
you're Little Deer Box Number Six."
Then she fell to the floor, much like old
pomegranate lace.
copyright d. dixon
02-27-2009
your head overloaded her crazy circuit.
you are crazy good, girl