1987, Domina, The Uncollected Poems

Gitina

Gitina

A gypsy girl stands before me.
A dark wave of sense
breaks
crossing
full dark eyes
which search me.

Clothed in shadows
her flesh recalls
the thrill of hunting wasps
on a raw hot tin roof.

Wasps gather around
dancing
buzzing
spinning
clutching fingers
twisters on a gnat covered field.

I’m sorry, I’m wasted.
I can’t deal with this.
I’ll think about it in the morning,
when I wake up.

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