Emo Endeavors

I wrote my first unquestionably bad poem the other day.  It reminded me of the time this nine year old at my old camp ran to get ice cream and accidentally stepped on a baby bird.  For some reason.  I will post it, anyway, of course.

Untitled

Just dismiss as imprecise

these lined and written hands.

I seek out stations to replace

our bygone garden shade.

We bide in fire seized

beneath ceiling fans and snow, know this traffic

like an age: even I

fear these amber fires as home.

My heart sits, my legs ache with peace,

I am almost dressed.

All the while I adjust my faith

to the flesh of your bedroom, those

untouchable walls, soft toys

whispering once the doorknob grasps

the imminence of arrest:

you ask nothing, but hover

amongst the lost flock long gone

from your eyes.  And as they see me

to the stairs, I am made a child,

holding fast to the rail, to the flightless

arms of a falling elm.