Sta.sh
in the outstretched wingspan of
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain
your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall
you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
all of my angles bisected by your limbs you say
you're frightened to nightmare
of rotary telephones and roadkill and
constellations
of a morning where there isn't any water left
to fish or bathe or drown in
of birds that
hang all over the mazarine sky like
radio waves;
tiny perforations in the
infinity of the skyline.
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Keep writing and keep creating.
i can almost taste it on my tongue.
Congrats on the DD! It's well deserved. (: