JIM TRAINER'S POEM OF THE WEEK, Next Monday On KOOP Radio
INAMDAR
to rise in the cold water dawn
to the bells of an Appalachian town
to move like a monk, through the gate
to the yard
into the leafy grotto to the bricks above
followed by a motley tom
past crowds of lidded-blooms
in the empty square
to the flour-sack counter
with pay and thanks
ceramic swinging by its pewter handle
up the hill and down the path
into the room, its windows wide
her gown hung and rippled by a
foehn wind
to sit, just there, and run
the rise of her hip, holy
until she, barely awake, pulls the linen
down and pulls me
into the heat of her dream
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Pissing In The Press Pool to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.