Lazy Lizards Languishing
Posted: August 11th, 2011, 11:29 am
1.
There were sailboats on Lake Erie,
the wind climbed into Sunday
like a vortex of poetry.
You and I were taking snapshots,
new memories to hold when the
moon is not close enough to break
into waves and the lake is
frozen to the touch, your glasses
fogging.
We missed the last of the blackberries
and raspberries, the scenery changes;
young thistles are purple around the edges,
golden rods wave with the breeze.
We brought home sand in our sandals and
the juiciest Ohio peaches you have ever tasted.
It was a full day of summer, we laughed like fools,
we soaked up the sun.
2.
I shot myself in the foot again,
used your arrows this time.
I took words from your mouth
and sucked them dry,
you tasted like New Jersey peaches
I gazed into the mirror long after my
image had fled, I found myself
rushing into a Dali landscape, washing
stones, freshwater fish and willow leaves
from my hair,
I was full of art, uncomplicated
by my finger pointing to the moon
I wrote a poem while you were sipping
Peruvian coffee, a tangle in red sheets,
four days after the golden gladiolas bloomed.
I, like a wounded gazelle, flee to what binds us.
There were sailboats on Lake Erie,
the wind climbed into Sunday
like a vortex of poetry.
You and I were taking snapshots,
new memories to hold when the
moon is not close enough to break
into waves and the lake is
frozen to the touch, your glasses
fogging.
We missed the last of the blackberries
and raspberries, the scenery changes;
young thistles are purple around the edges,
golden rods wave with the breeze.
We brought home sand in our sandals and
the juiciest Ohio peaches you have ever tasted.
It was a full day of summer, we laughed like fools,
we soaked up the sun.
2.
I shot myself in the foot again,
used your arrows this time.
I took words from your mouth
and sucked them dry,
you tasted like New Jersey peaches
I gazed into the mirror long after my
image had fled, I found myself
rushing into a Dali landscape, washing
stones, freshwater fish and willow leaves
from my hair,
I was full of art, uncomplicated
by my finger pointing to the moon
I wrote a poem while you were sipping
Peruvian coffee, a tangle in red sheets,
four days after the golden gladiolas bloomed.
I, like a wounded gazelle, flee to what binds us.
Thx, Kaila.
