ho hum poem

Write when you want to write. It’s a compulsion that feeds your soul. These are the things I tell myself, my gnawed fingers, my smoky hair and hands. Catch it before it flees.

You are smeared across the sand and stone that builds up history. 

I see you in the curved glass edge of the Earth. 

You are feathers and skin and the smell of fire. 


These clumsily made cups are yours, which try to hide dried pools of paint and coffee stains. 

Their broken pieces stick into my feet, into my carpet, our carpet,


We are sleeping,

or running away. We are thorn bushes, some precious trap, 

and blood.