#bluebreeze - Hello Poetry

The Conjunction Holds (with a verb in the wings) Not the leap, but the plank between banks— its grain remembering both shores. Not the shout, but the breath that lets two voices share one lung. I am and, I am but, I am although— the quiet ligature that keeps the torn cloth from drifting apart. The verb would run, would strike, would bloom— but I stay, a hinge in the weather, turning both ways at once. Here, in the seam’s small country, I keep the quarrel and the kiss in the same sentence, and call it poem. .

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Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC

renseksderf

a poem is a conjunction

The Conjunction Holds (with a verb in the wings) Not the leap, but the plank between banks— its grain remembering both shores. Not the shout, but the breath that lets two voices share one lung. I am and, I am but, I am although— the quiet ligature that keeps the torn cloth from drifting apart. The verb would run, would strike, would bloom— but I stay, a hinge in the weather, turning both ways at once. Here, in the seam’s small country, I keep the quarrel and the kiss in the same sentence, and call it poem. .

29

“Foment in the Firmament” There is a stirring above the stillness, a slow‑brewed unrest braiding itself into the blue. Cloud‑veins thicken, their edges bruised with light, and the air tastes of iron and distance. Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance, curling through the rafters of the sky, its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born. Birds wheel lower, their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush, as if tracing the script of what is coming. The sun, half‑veiled, becomes a coin passed from palm to palm in a game no one admits to playing. And I stand beneath it all, feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy — the foment in the firmament — gathering its syllables, ready to speak in thunder. .

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Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 5:50 PM UTC

hellopoet

foment in the firmament

“Foment in the Firmament” There is a stirring above the stillness, a slow‑brewed unrest braiding itself into the blue. Cloud‑veins thicken, their edges bruised with light, and the air tastes of iron and distance. Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance, curling through the rafters of the sky, its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born. Birds wheel lower, their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush, as if tracing the script of what is coming. The sun, half‑veiled, becomes a coin passed from palm to palm in a game no one admits to playing. And I stand beneath it all, feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy — the foment in the firmament — gathering its syllables, ready to speak in thunder. .

22

éclairs — bolts sleek barrels brimming with custard resolve washers — flat wafers of caramel snap kissed round by a cutter’s rim slid between chew and cream to keep the whole from unravelling .

0

Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC

renseksderf

goodness, baked-in

éclairs — bolts sleek barrels brimming with custard resolve washers — flat wafers of caramel snap kissed round by a cutter’s rim slid between chew and cream to keep the whole from unravelling .

10