Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Morning Star

Torso of Venus, 1920, bronze, Aristide Maillo
Columbus Museum of Art

Venus whispers through limbs in the ash;
charts the path of twinkle, twinkle, little.
Yet so much.

What are you like? 

Sleep becomes a nuisance.
I pace the ceiling, press warm footprints
to the windowpane, count the night
on her glow-in-the-dark rosary,
string it bead by bead across the sea.

Her morning eye watches from a headless torso,
holds me, transfixed.  
My goddess of love and war devotes herself
to the small hours,
offers me your kiss.

She is darling,
but not as dear as you.

tk/February 2014

Delicious mid-week read by R.A.D. Stainforth...


  1. wow. I'd say 'stellar' but you might take that as a pun. :) ~

  2. Ah yes, she is yet unconquered by love as well as a restful sleep!

  3. pacing the ceiling. I love that line. Love it so much


Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.
― O. Henry (and me)