different strokes
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
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
cold seeps up through floor
damp soaks bones heart
drums with dawn bird song
rain-breath-sound
for blg
taking advantage of a break in the rain, i delight
in a riot of blossoms. spring, indeed!
in such a tough-love neighborhood as this,
who knew there were so many prayer flags?
do we tell our child she’s singing out of tune?
or encourage her babble? when do we
become accountable for our attempts to sing?
or an arbiter of taste?