Tuesday, April 15, 2014

npm: 04.15

I thought about going back and writing some poems for the days I missed, but figured I would keep going forward instead.

04.15

Between waterspots there is reflection. A sort of thing I know. I can check the guest list of freckles, can note the lips split nightly by smiling. I marvel the liquid bit of road map hinting under light and surface. One could travel from my temple to my toe if every turn is a detour into new tributary. A branch of blue in my chest, the invisible birds that weigh it down. What is this sulking?

I stand all thief with the goods piled high on the ankles. No sweat. Just lean into it. This sadness is all thick and thumbs. I follow on my hands and knees until I find a weed. I exhale her dry. I pull her with teeth.

No comments:

Post a Comment