MEADOW DEAD CENTER
Loud knocks startle, the superstitions
sneak. I was thinking I should
collapse the thought when I searched
for an actual thing to pick up.
It did not exist. Fractions
of ourselves are not necessarily facades.
Only substance colors the cup.
Multiple circular notes and a dream
we know that no one owns
sends rainbow balm to ears
instead of eyes. Is it an arduous secret
that we don’t want it to leave?
Blue paint my mind. What we don’t say,
what we don’t see. We send things.
Folded, cut. A perfectly trimmed
hedge and square shadow. Turmoil
tells of its mounting. Closed corner
for control, their mud hair spreads misery.
This is where you lost me.
For the first time a body of water
is blacker than blue. You asked
for a city, not a blanket of grimy black tarp.
Dissonant clusters collect the mud bare.
We are circles, so elastic. What water
will wash it all out? You’d never think
to go there, desiring to be alone, not lonely.
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