Posts Tagged: lisa russ spaar
5

"Temple You"

What is mysterious about loss, flush of arm pulled from a wilted sleeve,

summer’s urine-tang in autumn leaves? Let  John Keats light another fag.

Or Brontë refuse the doctor on her black sateen settee.

For whatever part of you may be taken away, you said,

is the scar I will visit first with my mouth, each time,