Santa Fe Poetry Broadside: Will Barnes, Lips

Issue #24, December, 2001 : -- 1

2 -3 -4 -5 -6 -7 -8 -9 -10 -11 -12
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Will Barnes

Lips

Everyone leaves and I look for my socks.
April seeps in at the windows. Breathe.
At the end of the counter my bowl
of chile and fritos -- half eaten.
The spoon against the wood. Have my
shoes. The dog moans, looks, looks.
I try not to speak. Aquarium bubbles.
The light is washed. The tub drips.
The Siberian Elm against the house moves
and its roots groan somewhere underneath.
My sweater is hieroglyphic. A language
in yarn. I ask the dog if she'd rather
stay in or out. She says out and I
open the door. Close it. Lock. The
gate rubs against its post -- this soft
grating, wood on wood, resting.

Lip gloss
The mouth so slim, closed.
Its tongue beneath.

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Issue #24, December, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.