This is a painting of Unknown, by Unknown. I vanish the cloak of my over- delicate longing as the crab apple fills with waxwings like a mother— longer than infinity— feathering into a sleep that outlasts the ages, and leaves you in a nest of matrons craving the fractious winging of boughs, perfuming the just-still of soft light as its fingers uncoil across the just-green grasses to my face and pale fingers. The ground no longer freezes as it once did. Sunsets are impossible to take in and render me swallowed up in some deeper being. Maybe a question is just a prayer, and the story never ends. I write swallows lodged in my throat from the blood in me that is carved wood and ageless stone. My tides push up against your longing— the silence in that breaks over my skin as I slip past the frame.
What Poems Must You Write
What Poems Must You Write
What Poems Must You Write
This is a painting of Unknown, by Unknown. I vanish the cloak of my over- delicate longing as the crab apple fills with waxwings like a mother— longer than infinity— feathering into a sleep that outlasts the ages, and leaves you in a nest of matrons craving the fractious winging of boughs, perfuming the just-still of soft light as its fingers uncoil across the just-green grasses to my face and pale fingers. The ground no longer freezes as it once did. Sunsets are impossible to take in and render me swallowed up in some deeper being. Maybe a question is just a prayer, and the story never ends. I write swallows lodged in my throat from the blood in me that is carved wood and ageless stone. My tides push up against your longing— the silence in that breaks over my skin as I slip past the frame.