settling into
strange bathwater
i swallow soap
bubbles to
float
but drift to the
ocean floor
as though i’d
died here
before.
poetry
i turn my
head
to alter my
view
and notice you
turning
too.
ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
the harm and deep
hunger
demanded much
louder
and every last
second
rang with
alarm
as clocks went off
between the
ears.
this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
i drift sky
waves
like they know
my name
and mend in their
embrace,
while atop beach
rocks,
swimmers pause to
gawk
as i’m carried
off into
space.
i droop from
a branch
while my toes
stretch for
land,
not quite of the
sky or earth
but stranded in
between.
i hear rubber gripping
fresh rainfall
and watch clouds circle
like seagulls
while neighbors vs. neighbors
rekindle each
other..
i smell stale incense
as the hours
trip on
by.
pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,
thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,
anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires..
shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.
it’s friendships like
keepsakes
stashed in boxes
in drawers
that i should
visit more.
hands in the garden 
You must be logged in to post a comment.