harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
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where my branches are still heaving with the summer time sometimes, your benign hands are still dirty — of that i'm sure.
i revoke(d) it — aorta held in a gentle giant's jaws but i still feel those joints seize : the misery of my mother's face, the blooming purple sky of dusk on infantile knees, a stranger's index finger pressed into the indent of my shoulder blade where i laid face down on the bed, feeling the fire escape glow.
and the orange dreams were new, though i'd known them as a child in the peeling plush of a clementine and dinah's russet padded paws, discarded metal capsules and a spilt can of white paint on the floor.
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