By Stephen Ground
I remember the sweater
how it hugged her rounded
shoulders, choked her chest
like dark-souled rope until
it sank by gradual inches
off her too-thin, too-dark
wrists—revealing tan,
stretched-suede curves
tickling down to turned-in
toes, chipped nails newly
smeared with dazzling
coats of rumpled, freshened clothes. then soft-ish
steps on coarse, looped shag
met springs that creaked like
sharpened crows as tortured
forms collided, gasped then
slowed like bullets buried deep
inside a stubbled, heaving
throat—but pop can words fill
out the space, rewinding wrinkled
clothes back to their icy perch.
