234 Readings | 0 Ratings
three possible endings
go like green
then return like conspiracy
this moment rests along her hands
around this tablecloth
how her voice tends to be like
his voice
gathered in shirt collars
and helpless stars
plenty of me is torn
at these sleeves
you should translate
my translation
a tree like that
is empty of figs
empty of branches
on the edge of that lake
stare across
and he remembers
the shape of falling
into water
blessed and
holy
and evil and
violent
you can tell how a fish feels when it can’t remember you
then it does
then
it forgets then you
leave and never
come back
thoroughly tall
move still photographic
black and
white razor sharp
childish
relatable apples and oranges
forgettable torrents
she sleeps on the beach
how pink are her toes
when this sun falls
into their favorite shapes
egg sandwiches ready she said and she hates egg sandwiches she hates eggs she doesn’t
want to know about the egg
just the bread
just the soy bacon
not the egg not the possibility of life not this almost
I’m alive then breakfast
not these bodies almost bodies in the water
bodies and olive oil and wheat germs and basil…
…
…
a house and a table
a glass of something cold
and red or white
the fireworks looked like her
hands when they were asleep
on his face
and his eyes peaked
through those spaces
between her fingers
a moment
a taste on her mouth
touch some grass
then her leg
then the way she moves across
his arms in stillness
so swiftly
a tornado
and you heard me
a hurricane
and I’m gone
a sandwich
and we’re home together
thinking about
what to do
with this left over kale
and garlic
and rice
should we leave
never come back
and reattach these colors dropping around
our ankles
snap a tree branch
a raindrop
and there’s the skin of an apple
waiting
like this
in my mouth
snap the skin of a mango
and it’s still
bitter
the flesh of these lemons and limes
and sliced ginger
on the cutting board
waiting next to some cilantro
and red onion
and then just
them
like nothing poured
into wax
their memories are sculptures which rush
all day and night and wish about swimming
across this ocean
to those beaches
covered with seagull feathers
then return like conspiracy
this moment rests along her hands
around this tablecloth
how her voice tends to be like
his voice
gathered in shirt collars
and helpless stars
plenty of me is torn
at these sleeves
you should translate
my translation
a tree like that
is empty of figs
empty of branches
on the edge of that lake
stare across
and he remembers
the shape of falling
into water
blessed and
holy
and evil and
violent
you can tell how a fish feels when it can’t remember you
then it does
then
it forgets then you
leave and never
come back
thoroughly tall
move still photographic
black and
white razor sharp
childish
relatable apples and oranges
forgettable torrents
she sleeps on the beach
how pink are her toes
when this sun falls
into their favorite shapes
egg sandwiches ready she said and she hates egg sandwiches she hates eggs she doesn’t
want to know about the egg
just the bread
just the soy bacon
not the egg not the possibility of life not this almost
I’m alive then breakfast
not these bodies almost bodies in the water
bodies and olive oil and wheat germs and basil…
…
…
a house and a table
a glass of something cold
and red or white
the fireworks looked like her
hands when they were asleep
on his face
and his eyes peaked
through those spaces
between her fingers
a moment
a taste on her mouth
touch some grass
then her leg
then the way she moves across
his arms in stillness
so swiftly
a tornado
and you heard me
a hurricane
and I’m gone
a sandwich
and we’re home together
thinking about
what to do
with this left over kale
and garlic
and rice
should we leave
never come back
and reattach these colors dropping around
our ankles
snap a tree branch
a raindrop
and there’s the skin of an apple
waiting
like this
in my mouth
snap the skin of a mango
and it’s still
bitter
the flesh of these lemons and limes
and sliced ginger
on the cutting board
waiting next to some cilantro
and red onion
and then just
them
like nothing poured
into wax
their memories are sculptures which rush
all day and night and wish about swimming
across this ocean
to those beaches
covered with seagull feathers
Posted 01/10/13
Recommended
191 views
1,211 views
805 views
Comments (0)
|
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.
|
|