a winter garden
I stop.
An enmeshment of baby bats.
As flight struggles in the scene where
A calico eye’s found bounty.
I didn’t realize how many
times I need to wash my hands.
In life, I am failing at hygiene.
A plastic toothpick does more
harm than good,
second person,
glaring up at me. Why you
glaring up at me?
I’m a ripe egg, feathered,
vulnerable as a blind mouse.
So shoot,
burn, throw your throwing knives. I am
stronger than, at least, calving glaciers,
I am rising from a deep
rich brown ground. A darkness falls away.
No comments:
Post a Comment