Playing with ways of juxtaposing word and image: frame weaving + poetry
Thread Two: Neopolitan
Our bed is a melting ice cream sandwich
born of two matches
identical in their lack of flame.
Over under,
in and out,
we weave our majestic domestic
despite desire’s demise.
To pull the lust out of this specimen
would require another kind of milk.
We married the one that remembers to pick it up;
not the one that spills.