Nerves
It’s the raw nerve.
No more sex or whiplash,
Just the fire underneath,
The electricity.
For all the wondrous phantoms
That catch the flesh
It’s still just longing
In the end.
The old, flame-white face
Of desire
Still pulling us like a madness
Towards the beauties of the
earth.
All these blood-soaked,
irreplaceable things
That glow and perish.
- Seth Jani 2015
Seth Jani originates from rural Maine but currently resides in Seattle, WA. He is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com) and his own work has been published widely in such journals as The Foundling Review, East Coast Literary Review, Red Ceilings Press and Hobo Camp Review. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.
1 comment:
things !? of all things -
your poem tells me about living stuff until that line.
regards
jon killi
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