The Poles

Spare me your faraway hands
And unsubscribe me from those north-south tune-ups
From the far ends of this Earth I can’t feel you
Dipping my toes in up to my neck detachment
Where is the melding of souls this way?
The warm amalgamation firing from head-to-toe

My ride in a piecemeal place where there’s still warmth and light

Though your aura over mine
Can’t shine; can’t combine from way over there
Where your lips are
When their heavenly glow should be brushing my own
Bringing along the other 85% of you
What should be on, all-around enveloping each pore…

Working from the far ends of this Earth I can’t feel you


About LVital7019

Just your normal, everyday 9-5er. An uninspiring position in an inspirational non-profit moves me to constant goof-offery; aimless, on-the-job procrastination; a crankiness that borders on psychosis; and attempting to craft something meaningful with words. Just another so-called-job inspiring someone to feats of insanity with a hint of creativity... (Insert demonic laugh HERE.) View all posts by LVital7019

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Tony Single

artist. wastrel. a quantum of potential.

The Greenwich Village Literary Review

A magazine by writers who love to write for readers who love to read.

The Winter Bites My Bones

The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2016

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