this is three years of concrete language sprawled against
some abstract bridge of h-h-h-hard-on rock and black ice curls
laid against your head
laid against another playground scar on my left knee.
three hundred days ago I asked you if you were real,
and then I cut your concrete ribs open and asked if before we met
there was something planted there (in the abstract) planted in Ė
whether or not my wiped-out skin had anything to do with you, planted in Ė
whether or not underneath our loverís bridge
my concrete, concave could lay you down.
straddling the concrete, Iíll lay these playground knees against yours.
I have read many of your writes (have not commented as my comments are mosty dribble)... but I have to say I love your voice. It is different, interesting, and not spelled out leaving the reader to come up with their own conclusions. As well, emotion is felt but not in an emo way... there is an undercurrent of, I guess that is what it is... but felt just the same without being hit over the head.
What I like here is the repetition and the internal rhyme. As well, the thought of playground knees... kinda that rough and tumble of play and hard knocks and being broken in at a young age to how life really is... playgrounds weren't always a pleasant thing. hmmmm