wear muse poem
me the me
we're selfish
they'll say
inside snow globe
under belly
outside shaved
light butterfly
we are
wings drying in Sun,
pollen filling air in...
particulate slanted velvety hang leans
life as poem
distilling connected
to disconnects...
we packed things
in steamer trunks, knowing
we might never see them again
long slow sniffing clung smiles
onto each item we carefully placed inside...
30 days has April
a poem a day
where I am here
and we are too
this much I know
or at least, hope
to be true
which brings me to Beltane
and this late last
of the month poem...
my jar of fireflies for ritual
I think I keep
getting to you
outside character
talking to you through
sights, sighs and landscapes
driven off kilter
painted encapsulations...
and be they a-buzz
a-whir a-fire aghast almost
can't stop breathless
close to either
of our dark edges
near where poems
beg to live loudly scented
instead of just written
EJR ©
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