She said there's room for
some kind of flash in the pan,
some flare up of hope,
some change in the shape
of slithery things to come
once the sun rises...
if the sun rises
on this latest weird damn day
of all the long days
that trail behind us
and are still rolling over
our crushed and shattered
arrangements and poise
(we had no right to them all)
as we lay them down
with the feathers shed
in our summer's latest molt,
We call as swans do.
our bodies newly pink
and utterly bare.
25 Jun 2017 5:33 AM
