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(26 December 1894 – 30 March 1967 / Washington D.C.)

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Her Lips Are Copper Wire

whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes

telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate

(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: fog, power, house

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Comments about this poem (Portrait in Georgia by Jean Toomer )

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  • Maya Hanson (4/5/2014 2:55:00 PM)

    Beautiful! ! ! I love the flow of the title and words, good job

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  • Patti Masterman (4/4/2012 7:32:00 PM)

    Woww, smoking..! glad I had my insulated pliers handy :)

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