I am just the teller of stories, of lies.
God of the bent light under water,
and eyes telling a brain the monster
has not nipped his legs.
I do, fare
you, well
in company of ease and remonstrance.
popping and jumping, strands of grass
protesting the indifference and suppression
of love that fell upon in arms and legs.
I do, dare
you, well
for fearful quiet is the backsliding year s
sane or saint, are words that take time to…
strike a match on memories, not for meaning
but for the smell of ashes and beautiful legs.
by Robert Jameson
