Monday, March 7, 2011

bygone cloud

like a hand that holds an ankle,
I felt powerful in your arms
this dancing, this pointed push, this bygone cloud.
with my face in your belly- I curled myself inside
a spinning, dizzied head with girl-hair flying.

raining. droplets squeal and suckle mother pane. wash it clean.

Darling, hearths awaken inside of here,
and outside chilly winds dispute,
your warmth undying, I do not drift.
I swim in tears to your willowy shore.
depart from this-haphazard nonsense-
I am clinging to your trunk.

and I will only point to clouds
silent, white, and empty.
Posted by at

2 comments:

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Reach for the clouds. . .

Tickle your toes. . .

  • small stones
    July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
  • undecided still
    there was once a combination of colors, that I thought looked like raised type-set on linen paper, but it's little but some bleeding of ...
  • a name
    a know-nothing non-something, a song, a back-slap, a tree without sap. crowned with ceremony and melancholia- a whistle, a snap. a marriage ...
  • Girl:crazy
    So, I'm a sympathetic. But I've decided- Sympathy is reckless. A virtue; punishable. Look at the kind of behavior that it influences...
  • Invention of Play
    The ache in my jaw reminds me of my age, that I'm still cutting teeth on broken sage and giving up meat is my best bet, because I'm ...
  • John Wayne
    two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked...
  • wasteful
    Exhibit A: When this was first documented, I was more flattering of him than I should of been, but it was another reminder of that star-spe...
  • mittens
    where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...
  • Day 18
    Urine and Lilies for Pablo Neruda I had an early love for Walt Whitman. I did. He was not by any means a concrete idol, jutting out over the...
  • thoughtful hillbillies
    RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner....

Poets United Contributor