And I love you with your crooked teeth.

 

And I love you with your crooked teeth.

Your hand touches mine
we turn to face each other
on the pillow
looking down
your eyes dance darkly
through your lazy bangs
watching my hands
our fingers entwine
and the corners of your mouth
turn upward just slightly
I touch your hair
black as kitten fur, and as soft
the room, cast vermillion,
gold and apple green
dappled in sunlight,
my heart is a violet sponge
we kiss lightly and breathlessly
enter the same dream.

 

© 2.26.08 Anthony Sell

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Labor Sons

 

Labor Sons

And I dream
in those quiet times
of friends past
and faces lost
words spoken, or not,
of clasping hands
and weary eyes.

I dream of lovely agonies
and careless minutes
strewn, about
grinning stupidly
at the humdrum
of daily shuffle
and passing time.

Labor sons, we trusted
the clock, plodding
and plotting to overcome it,
the week, the day
the hour, the damned
Banker’s hour
and the shallow dollar.
The Butcher’s week.

Pockets pleading and
shoulders tight, the way
was to not-think
to think of anything
somewhere else
and bide, silently bide
we chewed our tasteless
food with the same
mechanical efficiency.

 

© 2.14.08 Anthony Sell

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