s i x  p o e m s

Like One Concussed

Like one concussed, he wakes.
Where's this?
A hole's bombed in the barracks.
He knows damnwell
there is no window there.
This quiet should not be.
He sweats. The tanks have
left without me, one lost survivor.
                        His hot cheek
grazes lace and lofted down;
the blue wall's whispering.
Bare feet, deep mirror's face,
his, his, his. Oh I do
thee wed, this place.


Eleanor  Ross Taylor

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