NOVEMBER’S END ’98

  by Bates Corlieu

Who am I to violin
or soak unruled hearts

I shall float my beliefs on
tiny wings aboard a twig and leaf
in guttered trickles toward
the gated grate in the
brick streeted tears

No matter the bloodied
ballet shoes     She sleeps
above the pain with two hours
of perfection scenting the
pillow

Indulge the naked dance of
verse without spanking