4/17/2021

Metapoem

You’re banking the words

on your tongue

afraid to burn them here

in this poem speaking

only to itself.

[LSS, 4/17/21]

at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Disorder A tabletop full   of early spring flowers. A pantry crammed   with empty vessels. No one feels   like eating. [LSS, 3/16/26]

  • (no title)
    Sleepy Time   A pile of spent tea bags,  a loose leaf atlas of dreams,  and sketches for the person  you wish to wake into  tomorrow mo...
  • (no title)
      Bears   four and twenty blackberries caked onto the waiting sky sliced wide open, dripping juice stains on linen   a one man...
  • (no title)
    Emily paper was a luxury, and she wrote on old envelopes, torn scraps, and thought herself successful and happy, what I imagine to be compl...