Untitled poem
The man hears the
cotton blowing in the wind and it is his own head on the pillow that
has come apart, his own shirt shredded by the hands of time, his own
day that came apart at the seams, but he hears the sound of it land
like a leaf or a feather and catch in the road sand like moths or a
white tongue that rests against jagged porcelain, the man can't bear
a soft heart growing in the rain or the trees that roll off words in
the windows that he should open up, he can't see the way he wants to
believe the distance of clouds stretched like the long arm of the
law, but his hand is the only hand that catches the breeze before it
tangles round his head, catches the thread of the sun knotted to the
cell tower, and he thinks of stitching this world full of cotton into
an animal he calls his own.
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