I did not write mountains
I wrote guilt, and not enough
and begged the oranges from short trees
instead of climbing up into their eaves
and what wouldn't fall, I shot.
He reminds me to take my finger
from the trigger of my heart
to let the barrel empty in the floor
leaving room for the mystery
in season and hanging, whistling
just out of easy reach.
Mar 26, 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment