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the moon is full of fingernails
that scrape the earth to the bone a frozen branch is of the dead an unsounded zero I was woken by the rattling teeth of icicles and drew the quilt around my nose the bus stop down the road was deposited there from another planet I miss my home the previous line is thematically consistent the street lamps are trying my breath escapes me visually: a reminder hold me closer love the trees make me a ware of nudity sssssh. by convention I don’t give thanks in
November, month of dry bones and shattered doors. the month is a gravely long word and things are meant to be burnt in it for warmth or to shed weight. one cannot lug everything through winter and sometimes even children must be left behind. poems shall be burned for the sake of fingertips— burned unread. if there is a time for accepting that the dead are actually gone it shall be covered in broken sticks with a beard of frost. unlike Christ it will become part of the earth and remain so. it is a test. let me be grateful in the spring if I am still human. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
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Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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