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the long nights remember me and
press the dark ovals of their faces against my window and all goes black. but they come later and you sun linger longer. sun, I think you love me more. I think you are trying to catch the loose end of newspaper jutting from my ribcage with your tongue blue as a gas jet. I think you love me the way thighs love hands the way the trees love horizontal the way the grass loves the dirty fabric of this poor-shod earth. I am a poor boy too, sun I will burn anything for you, I am your secret arsonist. I have been waiting all winter like a mad hatter for your crucifixion tea. be my marmalade, sun be my reoccurring delicate ache. when you ignite me at dusk my shadow will lengthen all the way around this earth. Comments are closed.
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Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
January 2020
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Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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