Found Poetry #3

I wish we had been born like bottle caps;
not actual bottle caps of course
but rusted, gutted, and ready to live:
the slit-chisel grasping the math of every folded body
subtracting what we've so long been dreaming.
I've seen versions of the holy;
my back supported only by the grim-stone tributaries
like the back wings of a stone angel
(yes I just compared me to the ephemeral).
There are heavy lead anchors that rest unmoved in the glow of her red tide.
How beautifully she swims in the boom of dark regions
like broken poetry in the name of art.

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When I was the jukebox
I pointed to the flame of her indomitable body
and enacted into law an empire of hand-holding
to keep the leaves from suicide
and the last of the seasonal light
from becoming full of nights songs.
Sometimes when I see her at the bar I become technical
like prairie flowers stripping away their seed fluff
I can only think about soaking into her power lines
like a good book sticks to my finger tips.
"Do not suffocate dear," she says to me, "for I believe
that you are quite wicked."


If you enjoyed these poems, check out the others on my blog. I've kept them warm for you.