Creeping Floods

she calls me cold to my verse,   and all I can
do is hum radiohead and wish   .  .  .    but
I’m not special and the angels won’t reprieve
sentences beyond their jurisdiction.
and sometimes I think,   just maybe this time
I think it could be,   should be,    maybe it is
about me  —  but better sense prevails even
here in this echoed poem of an open
prison.          her ashen heart must have forgotten
what her pretty smile belied,     joy untold
spilling over those urbane weekends west
of everything and apropos of nothing.
fear rains and the floods carry seeds of what
might have been far away to briny death.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s