July 2006/Volume Seven/Issue Two
Tom Hamilton
  Dream of Love

   At the last seat in town
   snug behind the three, 2, 2, 2 desk
   in a bedeviled, rancid, glazed factory
   sits a girl.

   And she's
   losing to darkness by minutes.
   Wheels on her chair back and forth towards death,
   a gurney more so than a rumble seat.

   And her hair is combed and scented so
   it has the pride of designs like honeycombs.
   And it pours and redoubles and curls on her shoulders
   as thick as syrup.

   And the dainty shoes which stirrup her feet.
   And her tapered arms are too good for laundry.
   Feathers, filth or decrepit foundries.
   And as much as anyone
   I love her.

   And I'd like to meet her but I already....

   Have you been outside today?
   The air doesn't have any weight.
   And the breeze still tolerates the dew.
   Till' the Sun can escape the embrace of the dinginess     Well,
   at least until a rusting hinge
   turns again in shadow.

   Like these flowers which bloom in my head,
   budding, but forcing mud inward.
   I don't say the words, I don't say the words.
   I but water them in Whisky.
   Until they grow out my mouth, the color of vomit,
   spat into an old
   cracked pot.