Читать книгу Alphabet Year - Devon Miller-Duggan - Страница 8

Fainting sky today pulls at

ground, trying to find color.

Why is saw blade made?

Zig-sag of teeth against

my grain, my gain, my rain, my rein.

Nailing words on trees in the forest, leaves

susurrate like pages, but can’t read for themselves.

Trembling upward, wing-over-wing, all the birds called home,

Halving the music, having it fly upward with them, they

bother the stratosphere with all warbling and winging—

quilling sky.

Xanthic eyes

pored over every memory of you. Poured myself. Poored my own memory

operating away from itself.

Kindling catches, but there’s no more wood for this fire. This fire

exacerbates the cold,

cakes itself all over these hands

until they’re not hands.

Re-enter. Something can be worked out.

Justification by feint, by faint, by fifth, by filth.

Love me past

& forward, but not now. Now I’m

demon for saw-teeth & nails

instead of words. When we were

younger we read poets, we were bright

versions of our jaundiced selves.

Xanthic (adj.) acidic yellow