Life’s a bitch, and then you die.
Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry.
In the spaces I call the thin
wonderful lives that you can win:
the taste of love upon your all,
sun flashed water in the fall,
heart-full seconds upon the clock,
fire-warmed rooms so full of talk.
It ain’t hard if you know the trick—
you bend your time ever quick;
a grin here, a touch there, and love.
Shone stones, blossoms up above;
silken touch along your throat;
promised love, a wind-rocked boat.
Things stolen before I die
are sour spit in the bitch’s eye.
Copyright © 2012 Clayton Clifford Bye