I burn like a winter rain that blossoms in the fire of headlight-lit water. Emboss me with jewels of a Gatorade commercial dissembled: seams bloodily unsewn. The many windows of the train station are fragrant with the dense sensual darkness of a coat closet. I hear them sound and resound, the alarm clock ocean of time unattained.

Elijah Giuliano. Suburbs, suburbs, no donkeys.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Seams

  1. L.K. Latham says:

    I was confused until I saw the line about suburbs. Then it all clicked.

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