Skein Home
Author's Works
View without comments
 

The soul of August jiggles your feet,

taunting the toes you stubbed on frozen curbs.

No more frostbitten empty lots echoing ice

while you do backflips and handstands.

The sky was an ill-fitting tattered sail,

pinning you to the dark streets.

Rowhouses rose from brilliant trash

like blind sharks fished out of a burning river

oily petrified weeds choking their mouths.

Winter was a condemned mall, a hollow landscraper.

You climbed over the bulldozers and rubble

of blizzards, dodged wrecking balls dragging the air.

Take heart, take a shovel, clamber up into summer.

Dream of a city glad and big, and build it,

your pickup truck full of hardware and plum trees,

your voice a garden of windows.

Add comment