Just A Sign

My nose and feet are having a contest to see which can get the coldest while I stare at the wall – chewing my lips and playing with these dry and chalky pale hands of mine.

Befriending visions of places I have not yet seen or long to see again brings me to my knees in a forceful rush of air, sprinkled with spice and scent such as pepper and pine.

 Perching on a word in a cage near a clock, with fists made of crumpled leaves and budding weeds, I find myself scattered and collected and broken and unbroken, so I’m waiting for a sign.

Just a sign.


  1. Your third stanza is brilliant--for the following reasons:
    -the rhythm
    -the conflicted emotion
    -the crumpled leaves and budding weeds

    did you write this in a library?

  2. The third stanza has great imagery and word-play, and it seems to move the poem into abstraction from the more stark reality of the first stanza.