Wordle #152


Your slack wicker heart snags

In the flesh of my squeezing fist.

A crush or an impendence?

Retaliation against a vague

And intolerable wind

A loveless need

Like the queer tendencies

Of attending ghosts.

A bottle of apple cider

Does not erase the wounded green

Of your stigmatical pulse.

I build cities in the dust

Of your retreating steps

Towers of imposing stature

With leathery strips of remorse.

If only I’d meet you

Before we began.

A fuss of furrows spoils

The integrity of my face.

Within me whole cities

Sprout and occupy

And you plop down

In a grieving mean,

Any closer and you’ll

Swallow me soul and all.