Aaron Graves
Porcelain

outside, grasping shirts of silk
crimson sternums spread their wings
clawing, drafting radio waves
wings of carbon cradling rafters

the thudding light leaks through my skin
and through the painted door reveals
geometry of porcelain

and the sink a shine of muted bone
it sweats at me from cross the room
here I am safe in a helix of bone
wearing my fluorescent crown

it tries to keep the bass out
but the flowers all succumb
(some still slips beneath the door)
to slow fluorescent radiation

onslaught bending them
out of the medicine cabinet
and reaching for the floor
of muted light, of purest white

the paper pure horizon
the shine of sweating tile
the sound of wilting petals
the porcelain all silent

<< Back to Issue 8, 2005