Poem: What was left of Joan Marie

Her lashes cracked and barked like thunder,
but it was a mild summer -
a mild slumber
on her door step.

Her mouth slipped under stones
to dining rooms and
dinner parties but
her breath was raw and baited-

So she waited
by the back door.

poem: q: how? a: romantic.

if ever a bit discouraged
remember
we're all made with worlds inside
and collision
though often unavoidable
need not be unenjoyable

it's a matter-of-fact fiction:
heads
wrapped up in
hearts
wrapped up in
arms
outstretched and
waiting

so
how long can you
really
stay a stranger
when it all adds up
to two too tired of alone
and everything entailed
with haunting themes recurring
and pauses
where our shouts should be