Word Art (2)


The trees bend and crack,
under the chicanery
of a savage mistral.
A grill flies by.
My grill, it turns out.
Grocery bags spill
across the sky
like dystopian birds
and all the while
I am sitting well within the boundaries
of my supposed comfort zone.
There is something both beautiful and unnerving
about the migration of flesh,
of the proverbial lump in the throat
of love and all its luminescent constructs.

My heart opens and folds like origami
over your silent, sodden prayers.
If my lips were a stencil
their impression would be indelible.
Still there is something precious
about being intermittent,
in the struggle to convey
a moment that is both
ordinary and singular at the same time.
One day I will drape my arms around your neck
and whisper my truth directly into your mouth.


4 thoughts on “Wordle #167

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