Tuesday, December 11, 2012

poems, weeks old


daydreams, dripping from my third-floor window
it's raining rain
they are sipping champagne.

sky scratchers, peeling the blue off the rain
a balloon floats high
but at the top dies.

alas, the sun! it burns and cries
but the bird does not care.
its song has the same fare.


eighteen or eight:

sitting indian style, lime green rug
from Walmart- a sweater that doesn't fit just right.

year seveteen seventy something- who cares?
juice boxes, junk food, dirty socks
litter a cold floor (fun to slide on).

what has changed, eighteen to eight?
same name, just a taller frame
and still unsure about why.

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