I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.
I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.
I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.
I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.
now
love washes out
in seasons.
now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.
And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.
I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.
I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.
I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.
now
love washes out
in seasons.
now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.
And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
