liz-nye - Hello Poetry

This was it: The broken seat, the precipitous stairs, the heads of sleepy metal beasts mounted on the wall places that felt full but were empty. We mingled brain stems, exchanged heads. I traded my hypothalamus for your frontal lobe. Moths un-attracted to light, we flickered in the dark, weightless yet burdened- this dirigible in my chest Alone in a crowd you whisper What if? What if….

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Aug 17, 2010

Aug 17, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC

The Amphibious Nature of Love

This was it: The broken seat, the precipitous stairs, the heads of sleepy metal beasts mounted on the wall places that felt full but were empty. We mingled brain stems, exchanged heads. I traded my hypothalamus for your frontal lobe. Moths un-attracted to light, we flickered in the dark, weightless yet burdened- this dirigible in my chest Alone in a crowd you whisper What if? What if….

14

Slow sparks Vegetable love you are planted and, nature mirroring nature, grow This snail love, rippling, wavering, creasing itself to move forward We knit ourselves, pulling strand through strand through strand to tie ourselves in knots, weaving ourselves into the fabric of this- our foxhole, our fort, our rampart That implacable Indian, the stacks of shoes, and the gritty plates: the objects that know our rhythms My secret bear/troll, wild and woolly growling our hidden jokes and unseen whispers unscripted for once unprepared Like two sailors we frantically navigate these waters, desperate to drown ourselves: shipwrecked, submerged, surfaced, and returned. Outside our cave we smile in code. You and I and the Indian keep our own counsels.

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Aug 17, 2010

Aug 17, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC

A Room Without a View

Slow sparks Vegetable love you are planted and, nature mirroring nature, grow This snail love, rippling, wavering, creasing itself to move forward We knit ourselves, pulling strand through strand through strand to tie ourselves in knots, weaving ourselves into the fabric of this- our foxhole, our fort, our rampart That implacable Indian, the stacks of shoes, and the gritty plates: the objects that know our rhythms My secret bear/troll, wild and woolly growling our hidden jokes and unseen whispers unscripted for once unprepared Like two sailors we frantically navigate these waters, desperate to drown ourselves: shipwrecked, submerged, surfaced, and returned. Outside our cave we smile in code. You and I and the Indian keep our own counsels.

32

Faces, limbs, Glitter, sweat Concealment Debris Gutter-trapped Occasional treasures Shining brightly, briefly Glimpses of original packaging places untouched by the dulling bleach of light and time Fresh-looking facades that harbor disease- the soft, dank giving way of decay Slight moments of concord, communion, connection. Debris that longs to be fairy-taled, that believes in the magic of changelings One clean, pure shoe on the steps of this stage. Tomorrow –Cinderella.

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Aug 17, 2010

Aug 17, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC

Detritus Dreams

Faces, limbs, Glitter, sweat Concealment Debris Gutter-trapped Occasional treasures Shining brightly, briefly Glimpses of original packaging places untouched by the dulling bleach of light and time Fresh-looking facades that harbor disease- the soft, dank giving way of decay Slight moments of concord, communion, connection. Debris that longs to be fairy-taled, that believes in the magic of changelings One clean, pure shoe on the steps of this stage. Tomorrow –Cinderella.

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