49 3 3
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I write my new poem in the gardenBut not like Mary OliverMore like meDirt under my fingernailsReal dirtI can feel the grit of it Something that shouldn't be thereBut is.
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7223
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My heart raced. I couldn't swallow. Heat rose under my skin, sharp and disorienting. I wanted to disappear—to fold inward, to dissolve—but instead of leaving, I walked toward him.
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6511
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That there are a downstairs, and high voices.
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7401
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Fallen Angels or falling rain, what is the difference? Feel the warm sun on your face. You want to believe you're in on the joke. If I could say it right, would then your lonely heart not have broken? Seize all the lemons! Snow leopards…
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