Sonnet 31

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2007/02/21

Each time around the block leaves its own mark,
a cut the shape of passion, in your hand —
the oak initialed in the corner park,
those scratches in the sidewalk hotdog stand,

still left unfixed the alley gate you wrecked,
small chiseled chips from key selected bricks,
and in the church where one would least suspect
mysterious maps composed of scattered knicks;

then up my stairs, when you had walked around
the neighborhood enough to draw your lines,
behind my door, the scar that won't be found

except on hidden skin you've pierced straight through
each time laid in our bed carving designs
that more than ever I belong to you.

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