The weather only makes it worse.
Cicadas sounding off at dusk.
The flowers blooming in reverse.
Your hand in mine.
Pour yourself another drink:
bourbon, two fingers.
Her hand in mine.
Our backyard has gone black,
the summer’s vestigial fireflies
devoured by limbs and leaves.
Lie on your back
and listen to me,
decode the blades
of grass that tickle
your ears and neck.
Love or silence.
Which is worse?
We pull at words
like dark threads,
composing curtains
for the windows
of a waiting hearse.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
The weather only makes it worse.
Cicadas sounding off at dusk.
The flowers blooming in reverse.
Your hand in mine.
Pour yourself another drink:
bourbon, two fingers.
Her hand in mine.
Our backyard has gone black,
the summer’s vestigial fireflies
devoured by limbs and leaves.
Lie on your back
and listen to me,
decode the blades
of grass that tickle
your ears and neck.
Love or silence.
Which is worse?
We pull at words
like dark threads,
composing curtains
for the windows
of a waiting hearse.
