Two Poems

William Gallien

Luna in the corner braiding her hair

"It's the yellow eyes, the way he weaves,
that grimace, lumpy and stretched -
too much skin; taut here - loose folds..."
A sigh through pouting lips, "his eyes
like rotten milk. I can't smell my faith."

Morning

Window blinds drawn
still
slivers of sun string uselessly across my arm
pulled long by her gravity.
sheets curl around ankle
and ripple across the bed
static
photographic
more of a clue than anything else.