June 8, 2011
We love
to be reminded
of the enemies we’ve killed
so walls are filled
with trophies
and crudely scratched out
signatures
that certify each victory,
we frame what we call art.
Fire,
mostly still confined,
is scented, colored,
and circled with glass,
mischievous children
and their parents
snuff out wicks with fingertips
or blow away numbered flames
on birthdays.
Dark
is where
we’re comfortable,
hunched over and grunting,
we make our way
each night
to the same hole
to neither see
nor think.
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6 Comments
January 5, 2011
Your warm oatmeal words
Pour into my cold
Porcelain bowl soul.
They soften the echo,
Sweeten the silence,
Make me whole.
