Peri
on windowpanes that shine like hornets
who look daringy into their own reflection
peeling its way under worn, marbling wood
and lovely white slices of candlelight
wavering and sweet
in the way that limbs from trees hang
gently and sway
gently the morning after a thunderstorm
that wrapped it's arms around
foliage and homes with windoews glowing
gently and people inside whispering
gently
in a field of daisies
all summer gold
in the setting sun
and silver in the dusk
i close my eyes
but imagine they're open
and imagine its morning
a late evening brand of lust
our cabin when we're busy
and our home when we're away
empty vacation rentals--
it depends on where we stay
makes me feel ridiculous
like poetry is halfway pointless
a joke, three quarters of a joke
and a dash of stereotype
with some offense, maybe a teaspoon
make that a tablespoon
and the recipe decides not to add up
difficult
swept under the rug
swept away
swept off her feet
and caught in the wind
singing
conversations in my own language
ring from stranger to stranger
for stranger and
I'm caught in the middle and quiet
and calm and listening
to myself and thinking in a language
that used to be foreign
Cool soda sipped in the
summer months; I am surrounded
by sun shining off of a lake's surface.
butterflies in my stomach is
a cliche but still translates better than
an elaborate description of what
I feel when the plane takes off
and when it lands somewhere new
and I am in the butterfly's stomach
and that too is cliche
ink cartridge in the printer
cartilage is the frame of my ear
cartilage is the frame for a shark
but not a cardinal whose car's bridge
is pointless, it could fly to
cambridge
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