my preoccupation is not
for the french
i have no dependence
on a constellation
no lake, no sweater, no courage, just
tiny shooting pains of terror, stars
shooting up, as if
of a different time, a
gray time, and dreams
dreams of kitchen knives
raised in heroism, shots fired
in self-defense, or the defense of you
and ditches not driven into
filled up with snow not melted, strikes
not broken, mugs identical
and things i would stab to save
and thunder-and-lightning worries
about that softness in your heart
and the beating of rain and
growing pains
and pendulums that strike
and the clever hero: me, and us
at least a little bit alike
4 comments:
cute.
this reminds me of mrs dalloway x10000
that is a very good thing, virginia woolf writes in this delicate kind of way that is amazing
i wrote another poem, but only because you spelled "please" as "plz"
this is really good and makes me feel happy, like i've just woken up from a dream.
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