By Richard King Perkins II*
leave your body stretched
across another’s soul
bound in the red twine of sin.
You won’t speak your regret
or trust the urgency of seasons
lashed to the world by a stem.
Polished glass is jealous
of all that came before
aspects never seen but imagined
brothers of earthy comfort
speaking directly to your birthplace
The tearing of innards begins
on the way to snow-capped islands
where the weeping burns
long before its heritage ends—
In all your lands of belief
infinitesimal globs of divinity
escape with every uttered word.
*Richard King Perkins II is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL.