Sometimes, I write poems.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Pretty sure it does not grow like this,
I kept dreaming. Trees like sequoias
dangling coffee beans.
Men on scissor-lifts hacking at vines.
The berries falling as I strangled
Other men, side-spike boots, climbing
and cutting as they got higher,
tossed a branch or two, to me.
All of these characters I forget, recalling
your brown eyes, Evita. Recording names
and activities in your ledger.
Following your calves into the quonset
where I pretended to know why I was there
as the sun was setting.
c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010
Share to Twitter
Share to Facebook
Share to Pinterest
Post a Comment
Post Comments (Atom)