windrag : poetry : journal

an idling van, chattering wayward bicycles jasmine mingles with fresh manure a lone blue light atop a single gatepost the only wind, this fart

chinese elms. i never noticed them here before peeling bark, and green green leaves. remember the pond? those fragile, twisting branches that engulfed the house in shade?

rolling rain-soaked hills, beyond the richmond bridge, (arch the back to swoop and gently, upright, land) to land in, loved and loving, erased by a car-horn

the tulip i cut last week’s still round and fragrant and frilly in it’s doubleness, but the rose-branch resents the lack of sun, and holds it’s buds shut, like two fists

for an hour and a half, it’s wood and skin and metal faces forgotten, we breathe through our wrists and the spaces between our bones. tied together with time we pummel desire ’til it sings