For a time I wrote poems on the subway
my eyes were bright and green
I grinned and spoke in crystal tongue
and wrote what little I'd seen
I didn't see what I thought I saw
as the seed sees not the ground
but perennials in summer fields
will watch the bloomers assume
that photos keep their colour
when instead they leave no room
for pictures on a dreaming wall
lifted out of you
now I sit writing poems on the subway
a duller shade of blue.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 4:15 PM UTC
For a time I wrote poems on the subway
my eyes were bright and green
I grinned and spoke in crystal tongue
and wrote what little I'd seen
I didn't see what I thought I saw
as the seed sees not the ground
but perennials in summer fields
will watch the bloomers assume
that photos keep their colour
when instead they leave no room
for pictures on a dreaming wall
lifted out of you
now I sit writing poems on the subway
a duller shade of blue.
It feels like every time I come back here it's been a long time. I get excited when I receive an email saying someone enjoyed something I wrote, and it makes me wish I wrote more. This is a poem about just that.
