The Telephone's the Tongue
The telephone's the tongue
With which we caress each other's skin.
Ah! My lips are open
To your smooth, dark voice!
Pleasure inundates domestic pain,
The anguish of endings,
A thousand bleeding dreams.
What love is not destructive?
So ours, too, must rip lives apart.
Let the tide of anticipation,
Those blood-swollen currents of delight,
Lift us over the bar. |
| Nicholas Gordon |
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| Reader Comments |
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| love it |
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| Name: yola | 2010-10-02 |
| love this poem. wow so intense |
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