dry coffee grounds lie in the cold mug. The
thump when the car hit your body remains, as if
the echo effect is broken and repeats, thump,
thump. Metal, soft tissue, bone splinter.
Concussion of my heart.
When antelope dance over rock, smudges of
charcoal. In the cave day and night, and I
wouldn’t come out.
You were alright. You walked away, a bit
bruised.
I bled internally in my dreams, the pillow, the
sheets, under the car tire grown large as a
ferris wheel. My blood sometime ran like
Van Gogh’s wheat fields, the residue of burnt
souls. The ferris wheel ran day and night,
even in deathly winter when everyone
was absent.
Each day the sun comes later; no, earlier.
The green fury of spring is nearing like a
virescent bush fire. The sumacs are pregnant
with multiple birth buds.
Who is reading me on this day that is later than
all the other days slipping under the wheel
as the tire drags on.
This woven bone, these smudges
of burnt wood,
these buds of spring.
No comments:
Post a Comment