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.
Your third stanza is brilliant--for the following reasons:
ReplyDelete-the rhythm
-the conflicted emotion
-the crumpled leaves and budding weeds
did you write this in a library?
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.
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