| the_tether | ||
| sfg#2 |
it is not the cacophonic whir of cicadas the soundless smudge of humming birds' wings or the delicious lilt of jasmine on certain streets I walk— it is not the child's sticky hand and proffered kiss the veracity of each wave's promise to return to land or the sculpted innocence of mountains glimpsed from a plane window— all of which prove the universe is good. none of these things is a reason to stay here. but you deliver stories of a life over the phone: old men's picnics a parish scandal two weedy young scamps the proper way to drink a whiskey all told with an effortless love for the breath that tethers you. I hold the truth of that in my mouth like the bit of a foolhardy aerialist, who dangles in sequins and satin over the net-less maw and i bite down hard for my un-dear life |
050911 |
| ... | ||
| epitome of incomprehensibility | good blather_poetry | 200731 |