Poetry

SLOW (a sketchy February)

Nobody told me about all these
the stretching of the sun
the peeling off the night,
the steadiness of a silent morning,
the cold whimpers of a sad moon
the healing of a broken heart
all of these are in the bus of slow.

So what do I do waiting on healing?
while my finger tips itch to hold onto something.
Where’s a heart as pure as the word?
when the face of pleasure is imbalanced.

Everything about pain comes very slow
it enters like a snail tasting a leaf
as it calls it walking,
the memory of what I became to you
hurts in places your mind cannot grow fingers.

I have lived and done my part well
studied what I’d become and to whom I dwell.
So while these words slowly drag themselves out of this well
know that your feet will take you to where you cannot tell.

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