whiskey mouth

Dorothea Tanning

The Magic Flower Game

1941

Oil on canvas

you moon were a thin slice

but the rest of the whole still slightly illuminated

he sleeps with his hand

tender

resting on my thigh

and i don’t mind

because i have no words tonight

a mouth with no sound

a moth with dust wings

the polaroids of the candle

didn’t turn out

but in a way they did

mercurial orbs

in the center of

dark silence

the other night we looked up anagrams

of our names

and his was

broncho silence eye

which made sense and

reminded me of the fox

that reminded me of him

the one with one eye

watching the world

and the other

somewhere

deep inside

an invisible to most

the feeling when together

is somewhat southwestern

with a purple tinge

diagonal lines of cow skulls

dead dying and drying

and also the way landscapes

pass while driving

a strange shutter

validating movement

and temporal passing

in a blurred reality