Like Most Sundays

 



Seventeenth century Russian hymns
hum at the bedroom walls

We bless the insects
that drowned overnight
in the arms of the kitchen sink

Outside, black cats glide
into the belly of a jasmine bush

Today, we'll plant a corset of cucumbers
close to the policeman's back fence

Tonight, the phosphorescent pattern
when you pour your moonlight
over my breasts
 

 

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