Crossed Feet

I’d never seen anything

like your flat.

It was fucking freezing

and your welcome mat

was all worn away.

All it said, was


What an omen, eh?

You’d pinned Magic Trees

to the fireplace

and stupor hung from

all points of your face

then you made me lie across your knees.

Your legs knocked beats against

one another,

as I locked my feet,

one over the other

like beatific hands.

In the silence my eyelashes

rustled like fans,

and my forehead made furrows.

I clicked off my sorrows.

I recalled a scene by William Burroughs.