Tuesday, November 26, 2013

26/30 - poem a day


I suspect the rivers got the hint and now they flow like pulse to you.
I think my heart grew feet and kicked down some walls and moved some bones to make more room. There are hash marks in the door frame. She used to be a little thing.
Everyone assumes it is the cold I hate but really it's the quiet that comes with a bunch of snow. The quiet like when as a child I'd rake up all the leaves just so I could lay in them alone. That quiet. That loneliness. Stillness of the world still turning.
I talk about the body a lot. Hard to believe I'm still in one.
Prehistoric hurt like the dried fist of daisies hanging on the curtain rod. Disintegrates to touch. Looks tired and permanent. But this too we take down.
The pennies smell like blood. The jukebox still owns me. I may always be sorry. There's a current coming, leaves that need raked. There is this body, forgiving. Snow, still falling.

No comments:

Post a Comment