Sun, take me back
After John Hall Wheelcock
I have been dying a long time
in this mist country-land, this pink plate flanked by rain—
The arms of a gardenrose whose petals are
the wheat fields all about, still drying
from the stale May rains.
Night draws on. The trees are growing back
the fox is silent. The buildings are tall and silent.
All things fall silent, or look the other way,
when you are dying.
There is the memories’ gaze upon it all.
Bad clouds are falling like me
on the black pond of the sky. Between it,
stars disappear,
one by one.
Accord
You are a tactile salt stream, an ice cream
angel, slightly smaller. Cheeks just softer
in the open pines of playstructures.
Cracks get bigger with every mustard-
mouthed yell. You have no idea when it happened;When
the sun got sour and burnt or
which day your heart was folded into a deadnettle. It all matches,
beats with the pumping air. Maybe
you can finally imagine you’re above,imagine
you know love.
you want to know what it feels like
But it’s dead
and you killed it.
