Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Burning the Bird (a poem)

The woods are white with rain but it feels like a shivering desert,
little drops of winter in the middle August. The trees are wiggling
like rotten teeth in the mouth of a child. It makes me want to lick
the candy stuck to the roof of your mouth. They fell with the sounds
of a collapsing skeleton. I set my room on fire when I go to sleep,
I like to think it keeps the ghosts away. Then, I awake to a storm
at the end of the bottle and ask the captain to turn this ship around.

                                                   you can kiss her soul now. if you still want