Posts
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Stained-Glass Girl
you should be an image in stained-glass windows
the same ones you trace with your eyes every sunday
while hymns echo in your ears, words
you've known so long you forget the meaning.
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Lavender and Gardenias
Her room smelled of lavender and gardenias
As we lay under silky rays of sun
And danced around the truth in long, snaking sentences,
Words falling over one another until they
Became nothing, only syllables
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nevermind, then.
and the pale pink is fading from the morning sky
the same way the words from the song i sang about you
under my misty-cold breath
died on my lips. i wonder if i would've waited forever,
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summers before
I haven’t been to upstate New York since I was ten years old and we drove away from our house there without looking back.
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slippery, sunlit silence
Once, we met.
My hair was up, and the world was coated with snow,
and you
talked to me with wide blue eyes
and a slippery smile, easy to fall into.
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I hate the sunset tonight
Why won't the sky explode in a burst of orange-yellow-red radiance, turning each moment golden? Or fade into lavender laced with blue and whisper-pink, the world muffled and soft around the edges?
Loves
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Starbathing
New starust slicks the shingles
On the ancient roof of the shed
Where a couple of souls lie to clean
Their greying teenage bodies.
The streetlight turns off at
Half past ten,
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She sat on a bench in the park
She sat on a bench in the park when I passed her and I said
Who are you waiting for and she said
He’ll come
He’ll come and I left and I came back and she was still there
He’ll come
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The Words Aren't What I Want
My eyelids stay together
every blink
a little longer than usual wishing
I were still asleep
I don't remember not sleeping
last night
but I guess
that's just the way it is
first block
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Monet's "Woman with a Parasol - Madame Monet and Her Son"
The swirling, hazy perspective on a long summer's day. The feeling as if time has halted. Expansive blue sky dotted with lazy clouds, watched from patches of warm, tickling grass. The swish of clothing, movement.
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some abstract fruit
Juice tastes like your spit on my lips
It overflows, slides down the point of my chin--
I can see the dirt, the darker spots
It smells like my backyard, like orange blossoms in the spring time
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yom kippur
the world was gray and cold when i rolled out of bed,
the first frost of the season just barely
kissing the ground. i tied the morning
into shoelace knots and hugged forgiveness to my chest.