Steam
There is a silhouette to the pressure of jeans thigh and tight cloth. In darkness let me dwell awhile. The comfortable bloom of night heavy bedded here the growth of stone cathedral lint. Arched catbacked ceiling the snore of old grapes—love— two bicycle racks, two men and one horse the Temple. We were poor knights indeed. Limestone mossed up in the glow of candles. Grey chlorophyll. And the stale air of cellars. There is a love which does not last which wrestles with ladders love which does not beget. Sterile. Pleasure tight as hot springs. pressed breath which runs and stumbles exhausted, it leaves nothing behind. The tree bears no fruit I have drilled holes in it and now blood comes from the holes.
--Gabriel Olearnik
Gabriel Olearnik studied medieval history at University College, London. He is currently an attorney and practices corporate law. His first book of poetry, Amor de Lohn, is forthcoming.
