Untitled poem

Untitled poem

by s.m.g.

The rush of twenty-five birds, one for each year,

went through that blue vein there

gone before you know it in a clear drip

hanging from a silver lining.

The ways to fly are unwrapped from these square rooms

a ball or a kite or a heart-drenched love affair.

The rush of an engine, you find the pulse, but all you count

are your lucky stars, the blackest eyes when so many are watching.

Rarely will you ask me a question, I haven't answered your prayers.

Come see the body in everything, physical and fierce, angles taken

from your point of view. Do you see it? Our youth.