Poetry, storytelling, Writing

Postcard from London

January 2, 2020

The leaf whispered to the branch ‘do not let us go, hold on to me even when we are blue’/I look for joy in a bed of grass to fall into and never rise from again/ to just look at flowers in the distance/grinding against the wind/sand ejaculated on the soft peach petal/rooted the flowers will not change only the wind returns/a child plucks the leaf off the branch/someone steals a flower and calls it love/pushing it up against the moist glass/ I think about throwing a match on the jute of the palm// let the flames react with the soil to form glass again/breath on the thick finger/ fan myself with a palm/condense//listen to drops flowing down the banks of my lungs//

Leave a Reply