how unhappy must I be for you to love me?
(martyrs brace themselves for tracing legacies.)
the timbre in your voice infringes on my sunlight.
would you be the blotter of my countenance at least once,
treble me to level off infinity until allotted downtime?
then and only then will I be fruitful not to multiply
alone, but to be traced to tenderness involuntarily,
and cropped out of my gourdlight in a sentence for the jury.
penniless daytimes hold off being bounced
out of the conscious zone, and predicates infuse their tone
to undergird pure thunder, animated as the scent of sky
and pralines left to dry under the headlights,
where I watched the snow to my maturity come by
and keep me home where she would word her mantra
to resemble yesterday's, while reinforcing who she was
and why, her child, meanwhile, still having everything to say.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment