Sep 2015
For Her*
There is a golden flower to my right. The bee scales it against the stumbling breeze. It is the train tracks that rust over it in the September daylights. A cut on my finger from the ice. Everyone around me knows that I’m scared out of my mind of what’s out there and what’s to come.
Such bees are too young to know that I am the metallic smell of a ****** nose. Hair on my arm is the wild grass. She was there. As always, like a schizophrenic ghost. I am at a loss for words. “Keep at it,” the bee said. But I found it hard to exhale.
She, who is the one who writes this poem. I can fill the dreams up with my sky and the sky up with my dreams. The ringing in my head has subsided. I am content with it. Her is who it is and always will be. That is all.
There is a golden flower to my right. The bee scales it against the stumbling breeze. It is the train tracks that rust over it in the September daylights. A cut on my finger from the ice. Everyone around me knows that I’m scared out of my mind of what’s out there and what’s to come.
Such bees are too young to know that I am the metallic smell of a ****** nose. Hair on my arm is the wild grass. She was there. As always, like a schizophrenic ghost. I am at a loss for words. “Keep at it,” the bee said. But I found it hard to exhale.
She, who is the one who writes this poem. I can fill the dreams up with my sky and the sky up with my dreams. The ringing in my head has subsided. I am content with it. Her is who it is and always will be. That is all.
