Are We Splitting The Atom Today, Sir?
I am the white noise
to the record spin,
my darkly perverse king,
are an atom bomb explosion.
Your irises make up a
when you stand in the sun.
You must know this.
I'm surprised that it
doesn't burn you up
from the inside.
I swear you must give off
some kind of radiation,
because I become sick for days
after you leave.
How I survived being
so near your being
I will never know.
Yet I will spend
my life recovering
from the short time
we were close.
I only endured your presence.
I only bit my tongue.
B.B. Loring's Other Poems
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