nightimes against my health
the whole ramshackle thing lies down my sleeve
spread out lazy and desperate
I am a poorly planned city versus all the other buildings
I throw my hands deep into the mud and it bubbles up to that bony part on my wrist
heaving it out up to my forearms and spreading it across the face of an innocent man
the waves never stop for my hand
these rainbows just seem to be following me everywhere
and I have no one who can wipe this muck off me; your hands are as dirty as mine.
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1 comment:
I had not read your poetry for a while so I thought I'd stop by – I'm glad I did. This is lovely.
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