Monday, January 12, 2009

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.


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.

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