At the center of a ball of string nothing is missed. Likewise, carry my air to let it go. There is no love at sunrise where so many blanched sunset. My cups and locks and a mirror remains a fox. Only you tell it like it is, is it?
The morning moon hung tongue and tail between John Rodger’s fence. You since incomplete, teeth on your neck and none in your crack. Black the bedroom walls, dress for clairvoyance. My little unholy searching something.
Three beds and one beard in a year slicker than twenty previous. She took me from a whisper, played sanctuary and kissing her lips unfolded love’s made but for stages.
NO TIME LIKE THIS FLOOR
I don’t mean
to bend you over,
let your hair slap the wall.
I just don’t.
Every evening in
I wrap the distance.
I just do.
Editor's Note: These poems appeared in a previous issue.
Parker Tettleton is a writer living in Oxford, Mississippi. He is the author of Please Quiet (Ravenna Press, forthcoming 2018), Ours Mine Yours (Pitymilk Press, 2014), Greens (Thunderclap Press, 2012) & Same Opposite (Thunderclap Press, 2010).