Wednesday, March 7, 2018


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 
batter the white
while trucks with salt
(sucked from the sea)
scatter the white
piling and collecting
no longer left to meandering
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 
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 
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

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