Our machines and our lives, momentum,
burning from the inside, hail, ice, wind--
and we ride.
Morning calls from half-past mid-night,
and in my bed I'm writing not-so-lullaby,
fucked-up incomprehensible garbage,
not out loud, not written down,
but a cross-sectional synaptic swirl of sound,
that only I can hear.
Buzzing.
Crackling.
White waves washed slowly out across a smooth, sandy beach.
I know it's beautiful,
and I would show you,
but there's no scuba-
diving gear to bring you
where I am.
Trout fishing, for poetry,
it's the best I can offer you.
YOU ARE READING
Please Don't Touch
PoezjaPlease Don't Touch is my first self-published book of poetry, written and published originally in 2012. #51 in Poetry, 3 June, 2017 #85 in Poetry, 4 June, 2017 #108 in Poetry, 25 May, 2017 #136 in Poetry, 26 May, 2017 #149 in Poetry, 24 May, 2017 #1...
