my face does
little
and peacefully
pushes air around
it catalogues the moments
a jar full of seasons
cracks
then busts and hangs
from a dry July branch
it is a smile
there are only
so many ways
an egg can taste bitter
the shell, for example
my face does
little to embalm
a minute
it only opens
a yearn for your flavor
No comments:
Post a Comment