Four-roomed waterfront

I put on inches
by a willow, much like our house,
growing taller and losing
the taste of birth when breath
was soul and food was live.
I grew up on the floor
of a courtyard of strangers
who snapped their fingers
when I inhaled instead
of not. Where they are now
bothers me like a television
that plays its same snow over,
every channel turned on
as much as little people can.
I was delivered in an ambulance
again. I was born again
with no hand of camping god
out there and my caul of pills
and mouthwash fell off
in the shower later on.
Some still smell themselves
in secret literacy of what matters
when your only sense is
no gift of introspection
but of a wall
where you can see outside
wind blowing in like peeking
at muscles cotton hides too,
peeking at the earlier you.


~ by Jeremy on January 28, 2011.

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