works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present
Where I am forced to break a two-fold truth
The cushioned footfalls of bare, chapped feet
on soft carpet the shade between dried nosebleed
and cracked lips during a cold, coastal winter,
whispered softly underneath my bedroom door.
They slithered in along the pale stomach
of the hallway light, clinging to its yellowish skin
with greedy hands, and I welcomed those hands,
those whispers, those cushioned footfalls
into my lap, my arms, and my tired eyes.
In every step I heard a drop of coffee;
cold, and sweet, and bitter all beside.
Bare, chapped, and cracked:
we match each other well.