Rich Furman >

Inside her coffin


Inside her coffin

Islamic bellies
and a touch of mint,
licking fantasies
of perfect winking dreams,
she does not know her place,
cannot see the spender
of her flat pierced belly,
her legs we think wild
from distances like gallows coughing,
like coffins dotting hillsides
or the relieving hands of fall,
bleaching out the candle of sun
the bend of her side and folds of
skin that meet themselves,
dreaming of gods unrelenting.




They never lick
my fantasy.
Bellies tilted to
side and perfection.
The creases fold
the door. They ask of
falling into
perfect winking dreams.

A ton of spiked noise wasted.
A mold caste of the
brown, again licking, cords.
The blemish in the felt.
The tip of cups random.
The bucking like
caskets falling from a Hurst.

The lips always ramble in cold
in a fire not lit in Boston.
Wicker cold sweats are lasting.
Capillaries bleed between us
in juggernauts of sorry.
I have never
really existed.