There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.
But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.
Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.
Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—
More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.
But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.
Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.
Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—
More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.
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