Getting to her
was like shoplifting
a pack of cigarettes:

First there’s the thrill,
the secret and the lie,
and then, perhaps, a 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 nights
nailed with lights.

© Steven M. Critelli 2014-2015

Categories: Poems

Tags: , , , ,

1 reply


  1. Armantrout-ish | literature |

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