it is my first day
on the planet,
though i am
fully grown.
everything is
strange and wide-angle.
the finches spin nests
from my hair (stranded)
and my twining fingers.
how they grow!
like history!
melting in pockets!
chalk-light.
i fear i do not
understand the grasses
and their confessions
of thirst.
the morning dew
travels to the edges
of the atmosphere
and back
before my eyes.
(yet after my exclamations.)
the next-door is blue,
airy and free.
crisp like October morning.
gray like November mourning.
i perch on a nearby blooming stump
and absorb the rain:
electric-eel rain
that cracks my
prose-colored glasses.
i remove them,
and all blurs
accordingly.
a passing owl strikes
three-fourteen
and twelve assorted spices.
my focus shifts from none
to all, and the colors
crash through me
vivid
and
white.
you dislodge yourself
from my eye,
quietly.
Friday, October 3, 2008
three-fourteen
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3 comments:
you are good.
i rarely say this about young poet-aspirers, but i can see you publishing books of poetry later on, and being worth a serious critic's attention. i.e. i can imagine poems like this and better being reviewed in literary magazines, and it wouldn't be a fluke; you would deserve it.
Thank you so much! That means a lot!
"the next-door is blue,
airy and free.
crisp like October morning.
gray like November mourning."
first of all, this is wonderful. i eat up your words. secondly, thank you so much for noticing my post. i had feared that everyone forgot about me. thirdly, tala is completely right.
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