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.
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