Life Changes In the Modern Produce Aisle?

[islandclimber]

Life Changes in The Modern Produce Aisle?

is there no day, falling open,
made for only me?
full of damp possibilities,
maybe several shards of stained glass
and a story that only I can end
-about the lost boy surfacing slowly,
forgotten,
bleeding memories from an open wound,
watching the butterflies as they
invent the wind with fragile wings
and so much breathing.
are they not mine:
the sad lips, as they pass beyond the day,
reluctant, seceding?

nonetheless,
I have in me moments
full of vague buildings on vaguer streets,
where if it isn't a separate song
or an injured leaf with veins
of soaked and battered steel,
it isn't me.
not without releasing some kind
of desolation,
or hands from desperate seasons.

I always claim to be more than just bleak poppies
and somewhat dead geraniums.

I am more than empty gifts
or wandering tears at recent
and dissonant funerals.

but I am also more than slightly superfluous,
and less than slightly simple,
and my own language can't be spoken
and my own words come in
painted movements
and champagne that tastes of ashes
and dresses I don't believe in.

mostly,
it seems that the waters
I have spurned are my own,
filled with
bitter roots and hostile intent,
dancing in steps that ignore all numbers
and all the shadowy subtleties of reason.

here, I'm a pink scarf wrapped around
a broken head,
and if I'm more or less
than this,
it may be time to cease
breathing...

[PrinceMyshkin]

But, please, do not stop breathing, not, at least, so long as you are able to produce more of this deeply, deeply felt and so beautifully expressed poetry.

[symphony]

I have in me moments
full of vague buildings on vaguer streets,
where if it isn't a separate song
or an injured leaf with veins
of soaked and battered steel,
it isn't me.
not without releasing some kind
of desolation,
or hands from desperate seasons.

There's a wonderful singularity here, and a wonderful sonority.