How many days I can’t think.
So when I do think of blue flowers
it’s something to hang on to
something briefly phosphorescent.
To fill the void I watch endless
murders on TV. Potential suspects.
Can the bullets removed from
Vince’s body reveal the identity of
the killer? How comforting is this
when I wanted to write a sonnet on a mortality?
I remember my mother once planted
lilacs in a hedge. They aren’t blue but
that’s where my mind goes. The mind
being a nose.
Jojo, we have some questions to ask you,
says the cop.
Blue, the most grateful color.
Who could think of killing
the one the love. He, she. He and
he or she, she, or dog, sky. Suddenly
October cuts the endless summer cold.
But it’s still the desert. Hardly green.
It’s why I can’t think, why the moon is
most at home here. You think it loves
those picturesque fields, those leafy
copses? Hard loves hard.
The air smells like cold iron tonight,
yes it does. It’s something to
hang on to. Not like a thought.
Not like heroin in the suspect’s pocket.
A secret life weirder than any
Little Rock detectives had ever known.
I bet in Little Rock they have flowers
blue as a blue bucket. Suspects, suspects.
It’s not a season if it expects
a conclusion. That’s what I think,
because of you.
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- kathleenjoy reblogged this from dewcatsdawn and added:
- holyconspiracy said: OOOOOH my god. ” You think it loves / those picturesque fields, those leafy / copses? Hard loves hard.” I just died.
- dewcatsdawn posted this