Twisted and Baby Blue’s Apologia

twisted

Some don’t like poetry that’s hard, dense like a Roman wall.
Others had to learn ways through that wall, so here I am
needing strange poetry to explain how I taste sound.

My way of hearing the world was always derided
by people who trampled the music that fed me,
the soft leaves and singing of the woods
that wrapped around me when all was lost.

Noisier, hotter engines invade the waters
in inner ears now; but some don’t care.

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July

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Death arrived first and waited for the rest of us.

She slept in bed beneath a pall of down and cotton,
drifting away from consciousness
while we toiled within it.

We watched her,
our hushed voices rising up into the air,
“What do we do?”
“What’s left?”
The questions rose while spirits sank.

Her body left a cavity where she tucked herself in,
buried under the insidious warmth of the duvet.

Pounds lost were nothing to the gravity upon her.
Her breath ebbed back into her lungs,
following the contoured mattress—
a cushion sloped like the bends of the universe—
compelled by forces pulling it in,
pulling her in,

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