06-19-2014, 12:23 PM
Stringy
There are, upon the mountain, hiding, those
that sleep. But some don't sleep. My handsome kite
rides low without much breeze, and down it climbs
until it gets caught on the face of a jagger rose.
I tug. It humps and tears a little hole
in it and bleeds. I have an alibi:
I was distracted by the August sky.
The sun. The blowing leaf. The preening light.
Days pass. It's to his credit that he climbed,
brokenly, thirstily, devastated. Shining
on death, and nestlessly he called and climbed.
Leaves left limbs and then, suddenly,
your crumpled bird beaked y y.
I closed the door.
There are, upon the mountain, hiding, those
that sleep. But some don't sleep. My handsome kite
rides low without much breeze, and down it climbs
until it gets caught on the face of a jagger rose.
I tug. It humps and tears a little hole
in it and bleeds. I have an alibi:
I was distracted by the August sky.
The sun. The blowing leaf. The preening light.
Days pass. It's to his credit that he climbed,
brokenly, thirstily, devastated. Shining
on death, and nestlessly he called and climbed.
Leaves left limbs and then, suddenly,
your crumpled bird beaked y y.
I closed the door.