"intervals" poems
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.
Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.
No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.
Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.
Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.
Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.
It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...
But I see red...
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Rigid, ugly, painful intervals of burning in the pores of my skin.
A rough sensation in my heart, I missed her more than I cared for my own life.
At what point in time did my ancestors devolve me, when did my DNA first form this biological gap?
My instincts were supposed to protect me.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
The singleness of mind
as the pavement lobotomizes you.
No forks in the track
at any point.
from point A
to point B
Employ your limbs or you might fall asleep
as you are serenaded
by strange music
from universes
just discovered.
Some universal truth tough to explain.
How every galaxy
in every glint
on this desert road
is, with precise frequency, interrupted
by that yellow stripe
running in intervals down eternity lane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
I used to think in numbers.
1: There’s one of me. Alone. Plus
4: my family. Still 1, but 5, or
4 plus 1; that’s me, alone.
I used to think in numbers.
36: That’s weeks of school;
That’s weeks of math class,
math class, calculator;
Father, Son, and Calculator.
Trinity: the holy three, the three, the
3 times 36: that’s 108.
I used to think in numbers.
Math class, algebra, room 108.
I hate, I hate, I love, I hate,
I hate the way they look at me.
They look at me like man at dog,
like planet hogs,
throw books at me like cannons cogged
at ninety-minute intervals at cinder walls
until I fault and cringe and fall, and fall
like London Bridge and crash, and fall like
Blown-out glass gone back to class. I pass the
tests and cash regrets like rent checks
bounced across the bridge that they knocked down.
Because I used to think in numbers, yeah,
but now?
Well, sure. Abrasions hurt.
And yeah, we all want friends.
But at least equations work
and keep their balance on both ends.
So I will rock this scatter-plot of
social contract to its peak until
my hands are red meat.
I am no dead beat;
I hold the world record for blood lost
to a summer camp spread sheet.
But then,
but then somewhere along that number line,
a 6 stared down its stage fright when just
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 days before the show,
I met a girl who barred my better judgment
like a cage fight,
and thank God she did,
because for once, I put away the calculator,
and I listened to her voice,
and it sounded like…
well, it sounded like it sounded.
And for once, I sat and wrote about the things
that can’t be counted.
I surrendered to the cage fight,
and I fell into a deep hole.
And to be honest,
I don’t miss spreadsheet summers,
‘cause it’s easier to keep cool.
I used to think in numbers,
yeah,
but now I think in people.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
I thought I understood distance
When I learned at school it is defined as
“The amount of space between two points.”
I learned distance can be measured in various units
As steps, kilometres and miles
or even intervals of time.
I thought I understood distance
When I counted 2362 steps walking to school
And noticed my dad’s car meter increasing two miles
In three minutes driving me back home.
But my understanding had changed when I started measuring longer distances.
And attempting to cross them.
I travelled a distance measured in kilometres and hours to see him.
Such distances can be easily crossed.
Either I took the next train, or drove my car
Distance as an amount of space was two thousand kilometres
And distance as an amount of time was only a few hours.
I thought I understood distance,
But never the amount of space between two specific points;
My lips and his lips.
I travelled a distance measured in bottles of wine and years to kiss him.
Such distances can’t be easily crossed.
I could walk miles of skin
And distance as an amount of space between us
Could extend tiresome.
But such distances aren’t necessarily a barrier.
I have crossed all the oceans we created
I counted all the bodies
And I have indulged in his lips.
It took me two bottles of wine and twenty years
To actually understand distance
But my understanding is obsolete
For him and I ,
Are still two distant entities.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
winter creeps
like Rastafarian
dreadlocks
3, 4th, intervals
calmer then an
Ativan pill.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
if dandelions sprouted from my chest
and cherry blossoms sprouted from yours
I think the reason we cannot be one
would become evident immediately
I am unwanted,
plucked away and hidden at first sight
left to die, hoping my return never comes
as though I was never there to begin with
you, the weary blossom
showing your face in the smallest intervals
your sighting a blessing, to all that see
leave your adoring fans, wanting more
I wish for more of you too, you know
I yearn deeply, each waking hour
that you would attempt to cover your beauty
only temporarily
and I could cover my unsightly anatomy
maybe permanently
and we could love one another
for just a day
my heart in your hands
and your hands in my hair
our lips pressed together
your blossoming chest
and my unwanted greenery
no longer in the way
just tickling a little
when our bodies merge as one
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...
A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back
The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life
The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt
The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not
The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand
The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print
The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains
The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-
I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive
I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp
Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness
These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse
But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"
In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant
I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?
It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.
...
Why?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
The Purple People come in many sizes, from small to extra-large – some are quiet and smiley, while others are louder and chatty. What they have in common, apart from the obvious distinctive pigment, is a welcoming demeanour that makes you feel that you have perhaps met them before or that you would like to meet them again.
I first met a Purple Person as I climbed the steps, looking for reassurance that I wasn’t late and that I wouldn’t stand out too much in my nervous newness. I’m not sure what it was about their purpleness, but I felt one step closer to acceptance as I walked into the warm.
I saw the matching purple banners and smiled at the attention to detail and the attention given to me which, while practiced, was far from forced and held a genuine purpleness.
I met other Purple People at intervals, each with the purple family likeness of a smile, even though their heritage varied in shade. The further I walked, the more I relaxed and found that some of the Purple People weren’t wearing the signature purple tee shirts, but it was clear they came from the same palette because their welcome carried the same purple weight and the same authentic purpleness.
This shouldn’t have been surprising, as I soon discovered that they each bore the same purple family likeness of the Purple King who welcomes everyone.
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
Judged
My fate lies in another's hands,
In front of the judge, is where I stand,
Sweating profusely, under my suit,
Waiting to end, this two year pursuit,
Which has consumed me every day,
Nowhere to put, these troubles away,
Clinical depression, grew out of control,
****** my life away, into a black hole,
Clouded by darkness, no light shone,
Desire to do anything, had already gone,
Locked myself up, staring at these walls,
Every glimmer of hope, destined for a fall.
Fighting with my mind, trying overcome,
More obstacles appear, before I’d begun,
Drifting through each day, like I wasn't there
Distant from the world, drawn into a stare
*
I climbed myself out, of this black hole,
To walk tall again, my one and only goal,
My vocals returned, clouds leaving my brain,
Sunshine appearing, clearing the rain,
Like sunny intervals, I had moments of joy,
Localised pressure, fog falling from the sky,
Trying to penetrate, deep into the cracks,
To rebuild my life, and return to the track,
Awaiting the moment, I hear the result,
As I fight from all corners, excepting my faults,
Refusing to be drawn, on the what ifs and whys,
The truth will prevail, and settle their cries,
Fact and understanding, from this broken man’s part,
Will show you his compassion, and the pain in his heart,
Whether it is accepted, my offering upon this plate,
I am ready for judgment, regardless of fate.
I will return to my family,
Regardless of your plan,
No longer..My life in pieces,
No longer..A broken man.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
*Forbidden Beauty
Velvet touch was her beauty
Sweet, nonsensical, magical sin
In her clandestine dreams
Detecting her whisper voice
In beauty times does swell
Her silence breathes come alive
With beauty to match no other ...
Her eyes had more beauty
than any rose
with dreams of supreme gifts
her man would explode
with her kiss as a pill
she sings notes of her love
voiced keys and intervals of tenor
she closes her eyes in search
of a remedy ...
She's healed his lonely heart
with only a smile
as she leaves him in awe
of her soul~he drives many a mile....
As a woman of divine
magnifications
her ambiance,
majestic with song
medicine of melody
tune ~ she is one of a kind.....
He realized with sadness
she's his lost fantasy
he escapes from the harshness of reality~
knowing oh knowing ~ she was
Forbidden for all to touch ...*
Debbie Brooks 2015
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
A daydream
Forgotten instantly
Almost
Small remnants left behind
A daydream
Where our best ideas are crafted
When exhaustion takes over
When second guessing yourself is so tiring you dont even bother
A daydream
Where time skips at random intervals
Destination: anywhere but here
A daydream
Where am I again?
I don't want to wake up
I'm happy here
In a daydream
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
bring your hammer and mutes.
temper my just intervals and
i'll beat a sweet harmonic series.
stretch my octaves,
correct my dissonance,
fine-tune my enthusiasm,
i'll play you some smooth sounds
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 2:16 AM UTC
There’s just… all this noise… There’s all this noise and I feel like a tone floating around in some kinda modal stasis. And I just want to change the key but I can never seem to get the voice leading right.
There’s all these other intervals in here with me and we’re all packed in too tight. I’m just a chromatic scale descending into dissonance as I push past clusters of minor seconds.
I feel like I’ve gotta fight to find consonance, but I’m so **** quiet that nobody can harmonize with me. Nobody can even hear me over all this noise all this noise all this noise. This noise when so many sing without listening. This noise of a thousand unheard melodies.
This noise this noise this noise
This noise this noise this noise
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
My mother enters the kitchen, says that her hands
are dripping, begs my father to finish his work
at the sink. I observe, for a moment, the expression
upon her face which seems conflicted between
a desire to laugh and a need
to feel clean.
I interject that clearly her fate is to have
dog placenta on her hands for all eternity.
Her disgust and amusement seem equally to rise.
After she has washed herself, she speaks of
Ponyo's last intermission between long
intervals of birthing to nap three fleeting minutes;
another contraction gave way to a wriggling
new mole who squeaked and groaned with
bizarre endearment, seizing my heart and causing
its mother's head, after jolting awake,
to go limp.
Mom says it's sad-but-sweet. Dear dog
has spent herself six times already in increments
which, as they increase, draw her spirit still closer
to a totally inevitable chasm of fled energy;
as soon as she falls asleep, yet a new indignant mass
of living parts swaddled in loose skin and wet fur
shoves its way outward, forward, world-ward.
Ponyo is not selfish. Immediately after birth seven,
she begins to lick her offspring clean and nudge it
towards her belly, where it may feed itself.
"Only just got a break, and already she's
back to work."
I'm one of five children my mother has carried
and raised--and for a human, five are many!
I'm afraid to give birth even once, despite
that a greater want of mine is to hold
my own child someday. I wonder if that
is motherhood: discomfort and indecision
concerning the worth of the effort in labor,
in birth, in the weak moments thereafter--
stroking one's child's downy, collapsible head
and feeling a need to protect her, to nurture her,
that is more pressing even than the so-
alluring whispers which Sleep may breathe--
and even beyond these moments, when I have said
to my mother that I hate her (because
to me, it was obvious that I did not,
and was too callous, obtuse, and insensitive
to think that she might just believe it)
and then missed church the next day to stay
with her when she felt ill and tired--if this
is motherhood, I wonder. It must be more even
than I could ever have thought like wanting
to laugh and to wring one's hands
(and even just to go to sleep)
all at once.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
The mathematician never finished his work today
Which is weird because it was the most important project of his career.
Working on the equation for the perfect person, left it halfway done.
The other half lost in this numerical mind.
But that's what we are, two halves of an unfinished project.
A slip atom
A half of a binomial theorem
A parabola at the apex of its' focus, ready to fall right back on its' feet.
Because apart we are imperfect, we trip, we fall
But when multiplied we are a product of perfection, able to point out that mistaken branch before you have time to brace yourself.
I'll take those expanded arms and wrap them around me, feel your acute angles against my obtuse curves.
Put my hand on your neck, not to feel your skin, well: to do that too, but also to feel your pulse.
Knowing it beats at the same intervals as mine.
And no one know why the mathematician never completed the equation.
…maybe fell asleep…
…maybe distracted…
…maybe he just forgot…
But I thank him.
Because perfect is lonely and you...you are everything.
Without him the Y= to my MX+being would never be linear.
And I'm not good at math, neither are you, but I'm pretty sure we don't need to look in the back of the book for any answers.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
3.8k
I guess I’m okay… What more can I say?
Forget it—never mind,
You wouldn’t understand anyway,
Would you even know what it's like?
Inside a scattered disconnected mind,
Employed to go on strike?
Where indirect misdirect
The sincerity at play,
When sinusoidal chaos spikes
And past meets the future present day?
As paranoid points outlandishly connect
At intervals of broken lines,
Memory lost in recollect,
An array of misshaped bells
Internally infect the eternal confines
Of infinite distributional decay,
Parallels with no intersect,
Streetwise cells with empty signs,
Burned out lights, potholes, and landmines,
Littered all the way.
How am I to convey that all those times
You let your mind wander away
That I was reading, thinking, dreaming,
Teeming, never idle, never strayed,
Seeing, being, so far and away,
Even the brightest intellect beaming,
Could not grasp the feeling
In the slightest of highest orders reeling,
Wound unbound, or as it would be seeming,
Imperfect, even to the disarray
Of the tamest prefect, whose verdict
Could not predict the reflect,
For in this world, seeing is deceiving,
As the lamest reject, defect,
Increasingly decreasing,
In simplistic bliss obey
Crowned unsound fallacies
That contradict all meaning,
Hiding behind reality, the actualities
Lest, protect the thoughtlessness perceiving,
Let me stop you if I may...
I must interject for I digress,
What nonsense was I weaving?
Forget it—I've lost my mind,
I best be leaving,
What more can I say?
It's periodic I must confess,
You probably don't care anyway,
Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay,
Until next time I guess,
I wouldn't want to be misleading.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Beast surfacing, the geyser blows
sea-spume that sudden, broaching, slows
to blue, then falls, no prim fountain
or ticking clock, Leviathan counting
decades at formal intervals.
On benches over rising thermals
that reach to roast us, faithful, waiting,
we cheer the act of hesitation
before the final curtain -- though, see,
the trick's just heat, just gravity.
Almost enough, I hear you say --
this tidal flame, this awe-filled day,
as mists dissolve and quick steam clears
and cools and sinks, for years, years.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Boundless dusk above forsaken intuitions
Stones with ancient seeds
Yet the roots can breathe
The earthly exuberance
The naked secret of our song
That manipulates my tounge
Redden from you and I
The contact of our lips
Simulating my hunger for your groin
The nerves of my vertebrates harbor your weight
As my breast shudder from your touch
Primal delicious desires
I thirst for the fluids of your flesh
With nurture and greed
I moisten your fingers
Help you find my sensitive pearl
Relishing the trail of the garden of youth
Primal delicious desires explode in need
Delicate softness of my mystical place
Lifting my body with much response
As my fingers dance, pinch and **** at my peaks
Repeatedly as you ****** me
I gasp and beg for your caress
I shudder as I chase my wave
Reaching as I whimper into a ******
Simulating my hunger for your groin
Inflaming my pores
I enlarge you ever so slow
Working my hands holding you from behind
One swift lick of your rigid flesh
You pull in a lungful of air
Your hot flesh started to grow
I ease you into my mouth
Circling as you keep the pace
Against me you put me in deep
The sweet taste of you makes me weak
Intense intervals underneath
Between your thighs
Intoxicating the very layers of my juice
I enlarge you once again
Moist and ready
I open my sweetness just for you
As I arch down onto you
Your hands rest on my hips
I begin to feel my flower grow
A whispering rouse escapes from my lungs
We flow inside each another
Deeper in my heat
Your aggressive arousal
Provoking me to quiver
The barrier surrenders to you and I
Vivid blossoms of tranquil harmony
Through the gateway of my womanhood
As you nurish the nutrients you covet for
My protruding pale pink buds
Plump with need
I'd hollow out to place you inside
I'd linger in this universe to pave your delicious desire
As you surrender pushing me down
You penetrate my mouth once again
As you reclaim my mouth soft and pink
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
my pretty darling,
aphrodite's beloved,
i will love you when slumber calls for my name
i will love you when the tangerine sun rises in the day
in-between minutes,
the fissures in seconds,
i love you in those intervals
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 8:18 AM UTC
I have cancer, but that's not what I want to talk about.
Nor do I want to talk about the cold bouncing in
from the sliding glass door of the lobby. (The lst
floor lights give off deceptive warmth.)
I don't want to talk about hospitals, or illness for
that matter because, truthfully, its become a game
of things I'd rather not discuss.
If you have an imagination, you get it.
I don't want to talk about the thirty day hospital intervals,
or the way my heart turns seeing my mother watch her son
soldier through. I can be brave and not feel like talking.
Because why talk when I have you here, next to me, smiling.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
I think often
Of breastfeeding
The tip of my ****** tickling his skin-thin upper gum.
In my imagination
It is many minutes of calm
I cup his head
Which fits into a palm and a half
My body is full
With his quiet innocence.
I imagine trying to imagine
How much he doesn’t know
All the ***** things
This action may mean one day
How he doesn’t know
What a kitchen is
Or a mortgage or an income
His fears are not boring.
Mine are of finances and guilt
His involve teethed creatures and deaf silences.
He does not know what it means
For the time to be 3:15
Nor can he comprehend
The recentness of his existence.
I and the cat are nocturnal
He lives in intervals.
We associate babies
With a soft pink
I imagine
Looking into his eyes
Two wrinkly slits
Wondering how to
Confirm this.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC