An Avalanche on Acid
Stephen Ajay

I was on top, pressed into the scent
     you left at night on the shabby
bed. We were both on acid and you said
     the little Czech landlord had snuck down,
begged like a dwarf in the dark. I listened,
      counted the cinderblocks that rose, that
fell in the basement wall. I was stiff inside
     you, wandering in the snow, deaf with
the slow stomp of blood coming back through
     the drug.

© 1985, New Rivers Press 

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