A stream of consciousness poem about nursery rhymes and the night and today and skipping dessert and Not liking that much.
letters were written
out. tried to be smart,
angry. it coughed a lung up,
hiding in the backyard and
lying about it–
cigarette shark attack from behind.
(tell the king about it).
the night fills with mosquitos, not birds.
not blue, not even black–
they sneak, first of the year.
i hide my blood-honey
in blue-jeans, not smooth enough for biting. I know it takes a winter to become like stale bread,
but I still rise, warm and soaked through
my garden is not yet planted.
Birds will pick at old crusts.
There are always scavengers ready for
the hardness of old loaves.
and there is always, in the spring,
a little honeymoon phase,
all the world sings!
(it is like thinking the oven will always be warm)
baby birds have no call to think their
wings will not always spread to catch that column.
the birds. the bread.
the gardens. the pies.
and oh yes, all that honey–
and nip the nose to save the face.
unbelievably sweet, the fruit we bake
in spring. the whole thing
fragile, breathless …
breakable by fall
or even winter.