by Kieran Borsden
I hold a hole in my palm –
(where clouds are born,
readied to rain fantasy –
droplets forged from evaporated
she seeps by false
fortune’s sparkle –
refracted below the pool
of lost treasures,
dying warmth)
to undo (my crucifix) –
(to close the distance
in my eyes; catch
the blossoming truth
threaded behind
her vapid state without success;
she pirouettes, seen through)
my clasp – the darkness.

0 thoughts on “#284

  1. #482.1
    (a response poem)
    my hand within a hand
    cup two lenses together
    to form a periscope
    of broken mirror halves
    that make me look taller
    up here, in the atmosphere,
    where warmth has died
    chilblains set upon me
    leach my nail beds blue
    beset with crescent moons
    that harvest my grip
    into loose bundles
    spilling shards wherever,
    mostly on the ground
    Nearby our drafty door broke free
    what a wind kicked the hinge off
    letting the cat in a ninth time
    as it begins to rain hungry dogs
    first just silvery slobber threads
    then a downpour of clumsy paws
    and persistent jagged lips
    Here we are both slathered,
    my blind head in the clouds~
    your eyes scrunched listening
    for what I tell you I see,
    while our bodies spoon
    wrapped tight in a blanket
    under griddle drippings
    served ready wrapped
    with half a baggie of sliced apple
    two burritos to-go
    served frozen to the weather
    so it would quit howling

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