I drop below the surface
of this harsh
blue soup, lifting the
weight of my arms and
sing, to the quiet molecules.
Above the boundary,
in the echoing room
wet, rubber people are
walking one foot
at a time, across
uneven, white tiles.
Suspended
in this cement womb,
I float, imagining an ancient
innocence.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
September
The oak tree in the backyard is finally turning yellow. I'm always reminded of these photos I took with Andrew and Nadia when the tree ...
-
Excavation They are out in the street, digging up the cement with huge metal claws. Beneath is the dried dirt, full of pebbles. Below tha...
-
The leaves on the big backyard Oak have the first tinge of yellow and boom. My brain, friend and foe, presents a memory, me talking the two...
-
A harsh wind fists the forests’ wall of leaves. The shaken green smell expands my chest, cracking me open to air. Thunder sounds, vibr...
No comments:
Post a Comment