screen door askew
an open maw cringed,
noisy birds banging wood.
its grey now.
the house in the orchard,
bones and stone.
her face is crumbled.
her innards fall across
my nervous fingers.
not so pretty; my
minimum wage hands,
bitten nails, frantic veins.
but she knows me,
her dirt sighs in,
nestles into my grooves.
torn jeans, fit right,
hug my midline scar'd,
grass stained memory.
black currant wild
with hollyhock droppings,
little lost planets, red faces.
i sit cross-legged in
grass level with my head.
lay back in the bounce.
watch the tips of
mighty pines tickle
the blue out of my sky.
prone between two little
old men stooped, skinned,
ashy layers of history[s].
their children rot into
their feet, sweet and
cloying; i remember this.
this is where i come
from. i stare at the sun.
its dead here too.
this make me feel like roofing shingle, in a field across the street from the house it once covered... fuck...
ReplyDeleteoddly enough...you're right on the money...now imagine overgrown apple trees gnarled over and stinking, the face of a beloved farmhouse drooping; they look sad somehow...gawddamn i miss that place, and that time...sigh.
ReplyDelete...'fuck' indeed.
Time is a bitch...
ReplyDeleteNicely done.