115 Readings | 0 Ratings

BLONDE CHEVRONS OF PAIN

BLONDE CHEVRONS OF PAIN


Like pineapple sorbet
slushing in a child’s mouth
like goldmelt fused
in cremated remains, days 
respire forward. And then,

not. A deeper kindling. Medium
despair bloods the eye.

Cheer up, hater.
Posted 08/27/13
Originally appeared in Lana Turner
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