The air is ****** up: it is a flower’s fault
a peony weeping and recessed
its creases looking like an elderly face –
I play dead, pretend to be aged than earth.
You count my rings as pine trees’
but I have few, if you’ll notice. You do.
I would say your name if the oxygen was
not stolen away: instead, I tongue at
my teeth and breathe breathe breathe in
secret hoping the garden won’t reveal me.
A fairylike, but natural room I am in –
feel its rotten sap still giving sticky hands.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
The air is ****** up: it is a flower’s fault
a peony weeping and recessed
its creases looking like an elderly face –
I play dead, pretend to be aged than earth.
You count my rings as pine trees’
but I have few, if you’ll notice. You do.
I would say your name if the oxygen was
not stolen away: instead, I tongue at
my teeth and breathe breathe breathe in
secret hoping the garden won’t reveal me.
A fairylike, but natural room I am in –
feel its rotten sap still giving sticky hands.
