I need to say
something soon before
my voice
becomes a muffle and then
like stones in
the stream bed. The tips
of the
hydrangea flowerets are blue
paint curls in
the heart, color gently
flakes at the
center. Then comes the white
hot feeling of
rolling an ankle over a stone.
Pollen dusts
over the face of a stream.
The last stars
from a crater of stars pass overhead.
I think,
tonight, but the limitless
blue message of
thought keeps passing me
like a downed
plane flapping its baleful
advertisement. Its impact like a good
person who
cannot live up to an expectancy.
The letter
carrier carries the apology.
I want to
report the disappearance
to the milkman,
but he is gone.
He has no
business here.
No comments:
Post a Comment