There’s something more tolerable about
a bulge that does not yield so easily.

A bald curve to clasp both hands around, that
fills and feels as if it’s growing into

you, but it never shifts a molecule
further than its perfect calibrations,

encircled with supportive striations,
immune to my stubby stroke of silent

thanks. For not being anything other
than my apple-wax scented standard lamp.

DM Bee

Published in The Guardian 10/01/2008

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/jan/10/poetry

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