WWP 8

Sam Weber

October:

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?

WWP 4

http://buttercupfestival.com/

You sing
and
I see the universe:

the vast darknesses of your notes,
punctuated with bright fiery fermatas
collapsing into black hole rests
when you breathe, pulling
me in closer, stretching
me thinner
until

at the
edge of your
event horizon

you

sing once more
and I
see the whole universe
but no light escapes you.

Still not satisfied with the ending. But oh well.