Dipping into rust, the trees
protrude like abandonment,
creasing a sky swollen
with leaves. The birds
are frilled with oxidation;
their departing calls
scrape over the fresh abrasion
dusk leaves on our faces, peppered
with the waking bats' morning
thrum; and now I feel
like I'm walking through quicksand.
As fast as all this is,
curbs like crusts of day-old
bread ridge the parking lot,
dipping at times into walkways
as graceful as your shoulders when
I rub you to burrs, thistlelicious,
with no envy for things that float.
I wish I was a hummingbird too, you
tell me: but that's a sadness
like walking through the coldest water
cupped in the back of your throat, and
not even fighting as it fills you up.
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http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
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DROWNING IN THE AGE OF MID-AIR
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Type: discussion