Work In Progress

I must post a warning before this poem--

DISCLAIMER: My windows didn't burst into a million silver spears from Zeus when I put the pen down on this poem; it has a decidedly unfinished feel to me. I may even take both of the poems I posted today down at some point, when the embarrassment kicks in. But for now you can enjoy my shamelessness.

We are written in the wee hours

when the world is too loopy on blood

flow to think straight (or to

care for neatly-stacked thoughts) and

has time to breathe

deeply

and feel

heavy

and examine the freckles on our

fingertips.

and to decide to play connect

the

dots for

one

last

time.

Who said the oysters have grown up?

Who said the sycamore that's

spreading its arms

apart in our very lungs,

in our ticking tissue-paper pocket protectors,

isn't still learning how to push

pestiferous people out

of its path so it can

breathe some? Who

wrote these so-called histories

of the heart anyway?