brittle hope poems into feathers of this morning flexing many periods. refinding light and turning to face it the clock on the wall is terrible
By Thomas Mattson3 years ago in Poets
angry june of i only want to care better but can’t make myself into something not broken. the universe is the stone that water eats and everything requires
the night is yin and moonless and hot. restless pigeons peck at the concrete and hating punctuation, clouds bike the sky. a glimmer glows in the knot
the destroyed work of former summers clutters the dark shed with the smell of gasoline and vegetation cut like interrupted fingers.
4 billion years of evolutionary accidents and i’m feeling tender on a rooftop in brooklyn. the city is wind and bridges chase
tomorrow stretches stitches and a birch branches through my rib cage. white skin peels a little like fog molting or constellations freckling a dark puddle
like a bird inside a folk song, the summering earth is a tin can of blue sky. the traipsing powerlines tie the country together and for what it's worth
softening what tries to be iron but isn’t, the talkative branch that clangs against the house i'sn’t brave. i walk through
i watch an orange sky fill in and know it isn't an orange but only bent light over the bakery. a bus stops curbside to spill a small mess of commuters,
i'm the red garage out back of our first house on 59th street, the white trellises where my mother's roses clung like knots of everything beautiful.
moonlight glints on the silver river. history clutters cells like decimals repeating, wind footstepping through a labyrinth of spruces. my skin,
filling jars with the crooked necks of supermarket tulips, the moon in disciplined orbit tries to sleep. teaching a cowlick to stay down is like colonizing