Saturday, March 2, 2013

To Myself

If your poems are pierced by shafts of light
in a battered gray barn, let the dust float
there awhile as red hens squawk
through weather-beaten boards.

If your poems shine
with her blue eyes and pillow talk
and some very heavy breathing,
offer to light them a cigarette after.

If they contain too much
wondering if they’ll remember
you when they’re grown and gone,
just cradle them into heaviness.

When they hide in the forgotten darkness
of your scariest dreams, stare them down
until they skulk into your back pocket
and try to get lost in the wash.

Blue Lake Review - March 2013

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