The green and guilty thumb

Foraging in my backyard
for her bones and the poppy
that yearns a tree into its
jittery stem, I turn over lyrics
I threw over her face
with my lips that night.
Or morning, things are always
shorter mornings than noons
that draw and draw marrow
straight out like a solvent
she drank neat and blamed
it on the AA. I sometimes
pour aphids over where
the bath salts failed.
I sometimes pick a petal
in season off, red as cherries
splayed in the girl’s field
I took, and blow it
and the wind blows it back,
I sometimes wash the flower
that always looks winter
in its glazing eye
as winter stares back
and she stares up through
unhappier dirt than fallowed.
I farm her out when
I drink my coffee in the dark.
I have stopped telling time
what to do with itself.
I hear the patter of roots
growing in or I think I do.


~ by Jeremy on January 28, 2011.

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