Deeply out of practice, like a flat guitar
or neglected horn—flecked
with the top-shelf dust
of a back-corner closet
where we walk out on our dreams.
Our potential to be
something other. Other than
predictable, plannable,
endlessly programmable—equipped with no need
to blink
as the sun and moon tumble
like drying shoes.
I’ve hung up
my perm-pressed blues in favor
of ill-fitting suits and
left-handed salutes to all
I used to be.
A red-poppy wreath
for her obsession, blue for neurotics
and eccentricity.
White
for her bird bones
against fondant feathers.
And purple
for her poetry.
Yorumlar