on the pillowcase

Kisses curdle in the old oak barrel
where memories linger just long enough
to change shape and shadow, and the peril
of time and shifting allegiances, rough
like sandpaper on old wounds, festering
with the too-slow healing of flesh and blood,
aftermath of bitter seasons. We bring
it on, eyes and arms open to the flood,
malefics we cannot define neatly
with unknown underpinnings that hold high
the lie and bluff, misinformed completely.
Mislaid lessons fall, drops of sweat, to dry
on the pillowcase, in lover's embrace,
as we come to face our jaded disgrace.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.