Getting to her
was like shoplifting
a pack of cigarettes:

First there’s the thrill,
the secret and the lie,
and then the unexpected chill.


As if Morse would have
telegraphed his thoughts,
imagining that the more
words cut time and distance,
the less innocent
they become.


the old varnish,
fingertips shadowing
the art of a sundial,
unsealing the night
nailed with light.

© Steven M. Critelli 2014-2015

Categories: Poems

Tags: , , , ,

1 reply


  1. Armantrout-ish | literature |

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