The morning in gloss, its hiding young.
The woodpecker's loose
robe in halves, until it writes
a paragraph inside a velvet pocket.
A fat lipstick smack for a head
took my throat when it flew.
Haven't I grown to like the sudden
stab. I've swallowed a field, as
dying samurai after a drawn sword
to battle. That startle odd red
a tassel dangling from a shield.
If I've stood up
like an obdient prisoner;
haven't I cradled any open light?
Circling eyes lined in the screech
of an owl. Haven't I remembered that
hollow tunnel my head unpatched
a galaxy through; the white inside
the tail fanning like an organ
cut. This can't be too good
to be true. It's no path.
It is how a field melts back
into grass with no movement;
and there
under moments.
Sorry to bug you again pal, but this poem is so fucking strong, loud and quiet all at once, that I'd be a real pussy if i didn't say so. And so I do. Thanks!