Night labors, but sometimes
not. I guarantee you, some
days it's easier. Not joy.
Not sorrow. But a little
of both holding hands,
having made peace with her,
which is to say surrender
to it's sun up, sundown,
go with it flow: you are
tired for the right reasons.
White sheets whipped flat.
Countertops, too, wiped
clean. That you're still
a mess for boys with
fine chins and scars,
pushed to the back of the shelf,
for now. It's just. This room.
The freckle on your thumb.
This postage stamp forever
licking itself clean.
No comments:
Post a Comment