Poem Excluding Cancer
In graveyards, on our backs,
we think of nothing
and it’s storm patterns.
You describe the twilight
first as a dull breath of death,
and later as a sex tape
involving too many crayons.
I look at you until my head fills
with leftover tea shards. Until
you are cancer free.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.