the winter sky
sags and sways and swells
before unbuttoning its
tweed-smoke belly
to reveal boorish gray
bristles and the wiry
wrinkles of this
our circling history
once open
out flies and spins and falls
an exodus of small
silent sequin angels
of water and vapor and dust
sewn into delicate skirts
of satin and silk and tulle
pulled into polyester
tights, frothy sleeves
and coarse wedding veils
in the morning
boots/sand/soot/shovels
batter the white
while trucks with salt
(sucked from the sea)
scatter the white
piling and collecting
no longer left to meandering
crackling/splitting/melting
all the girls into lingering puddles
of silt and steam and ice
when they rise, they rise
from slippery quarry stones
blooming meadows
wide maples
moss and mountains
from narrow roads
oak bark folds
gutters, pelt, and pine
from miles of sidewalk
public garden plots and
abandoned coal mines
from oily alleyways
cold rivers and lonesome valleys
they rise and rise
as they have since they first rose
and filled the sky
with white velvet pedals
i was born
fragile/pink/wild/ugly
still I keep pretending
to be pretty
while the sun warms me
burns and blinds me
and the sky bathes me
of my insincerity
perhaps i am
as unique as the pressed
tear of a cloud
while too a person
(just another person)
in this incalculable scattering crowd
fluid/solid/air/hair/white/muddy
painted and covered
plucked and brushed
still meeting my complexity
with earnest curiosity
i want to be
brave and naked
settled and in flight
falling and melting
while stitching my wounds right
and tight with a smart intention
and a spontaneous vulnerability
and i want to remember
that what we hide
is what others seek
and what others seek
is to know
that they are not alone
that yes, we are all
a little broken
No comments:
Post a Comment