Cracked Porcelain

Dear girl with the withered lips:

your bed belongs to a doll’s house,
creaks like a casket

while my love sprawls you against the cloth
like a pinned butterfly—

a wilted symmetry of something lost.
You should know the sheets smell

like another poet’s stale vermouth and dust.
Did he spend seven empty stanzas

undressing you of jaded stars?
He made you into something

when you’re nothing at all, nothing
without your closet of curiosities

to hide the shimmer left of youth,
the soft skin that measures time

like the oscillations of a stone,
waiting to ring one day

just to say that too much time has passed.
You’re a gray-haired child,

but I got a little extra love
to get some thirst in your soul—

the kind that ruins you
cause you can’t get your fix

from sheltered boys—
the kind that wakes the dead

with your desperate moans,
begging for my gin.

Dry spell’s ending soon.
It’s going to thunder when it does.

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