Tuesday, November 24, 2009



I turn orange and brown,
come all to pieces on your lawn,
dry, crumbling bits
of braid, shoulder, smile
scattered across your grass.
The sun shines low and golden through my spaces.

Last spring
I stood pale green and
dewy here, you
appearing when I called
whistling about me, whispering of always

into June, when
we blazed sleepily,
sun-deepened, familiar
our arms rooted fast
in the soil of us

until October:
we erode

Better late than never? Also, is the ending too sudden? Is this just the worst thing I have ever written? Why am I the worst judge ever of my poetry?

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