By Madison
Date: 29 March 2001

bluebottle sting

             on the formica table, sprigged 
                    with curls of turquoise 
                loops, there was a photo of
        the man-of-war.  translucent gloves
                   swarming like a thousand
           hands.  you told me not to touch.
              but she could.  my words were
           thin welts.  my soma, dressed to
             fight or flee.  you dreamed in
                black and white; you fought
                        my battles in color.

I want to touch you now, but I'll not 
mention it again.  it only makes 
it harder, living with the surrealism of 
being apart.  these unconcious dreams, 
unconcious thoughts.  they look like a 
torn tentacle.  the surrealism 
of being together was 
easier to hold.  it anchored our bodies.  
it floated in, and floated out of
spaces it could find between virgo 
and capricorn and sang to us while 
sipping wines from portugal.    
I want to touch you now.



M Madison
29 mar 01