unspoken
green felt shores
and your sherpas
carrying caches of venom
they tore pathways
under my wounds once more

forgiven by ruse
of convenience
and the sweet bird
of wish-laden timing
covering that stain on the sheets

you accept my hands
defensively offensive
tented here for the night
mirrored-ball mirage oasis
of your own fucked-up desert

laughter belies
the dry corners of your mouth
papier-mâché folds
in place of skin
clockworks surrogate any heat

have to check
your calendar, after all
await the remix
altering the meaning of the lyric
to suit

© Tom Watters  3/24/08