In the night, we lay together; and in the morning
moved the furniture then rinsed the plates from which
we’d eaten. Solitude was the word we spread open:
like a fish butterflied on the cutting board, its spine
a bridge or an illustration of a bridge; like a temporary
tattoo lightly pressed against a fleshy backdrop.
[LAG-other-response url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2015/04/assignation/” title=”Via Negativa: Assignation”]