3/6/14:
I am a hostage to her sorrel lakes the way a vascular organ is to a ribcage.
Incessantly, rife violets spring from the starkest crooks in her chest and
when she is sad, it rains; so she grows-
an eden of Arctic debris protruding her marrow like a human greenhouse.
So I know; and more thorough than the pools of my ankle bruises,
I will not tire of her flowers.
YOU ARE READING
The Sagittarius
ŞiirThe Sagittarius is a chronological collection of poems I've written over the past year and a half that are all specific to one topic. Some are very brief and some are longer.
