The ocean is mermaidless despite all
those dreams and paintings
Each day some of us stare at glowing
blue globes for hours
Night returns
The stove burns with touch, leaves its
note on the skin
A woman bleeds for days yet no one
knows, she smiles, carries wood
Inuits have hundreds of words for
snow*
A turtle lives inside itself always
like we do
The sky will turn purple
Glass made from heated sand, drops,
breaks back into pieces:
how we all fall, too, into our truest
selves when we break
as we are bound to
*I only have one.
No comments:
Post a Comment