in the warm lit tunnel of stairs
no one is staring at the stars
closed eyes watch from offices
with glassed-in birds whose tongues are whirring
in the tunnel of green stems
no blood is stirring
if i could stop sensing scent or shape
i’d maybe believe we spent long hours like
august through november or longer
just waiting for christmas to arrive
when we’d be special, fancy
we’d be words that were capitalized
when i find us eating red herrings
for dinner i believe that we are fancy now
these things protect us from the cold so we can want it
and unravel from an unborn coil
panting for hands, for warm dark spaces
paper like blood, and water slow like oil
2 comments:
i really like this poem.
as always, you're freaking fantastic. i dunno if i'm way off base, though, but this felt kind of melancholy to me.
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