in the morning i think about the essays creeping over my back garden.
they are the dense sort, biology reports with thorns of luxuriosa lingua
and i'd need to shovel google scholar
and midnight lab break-ins to snip it off my to-do list
&
they are the everywhere sort, close-reading passages sneaking their roots onto my porch
and i'd need to douze with oily longwinded, thick, fat and hairy with bits and bits and bits sticking out each and every end with nowhere to go and nowhere to be and tangenting off whatever i was meant to say 'cause the word counts the only real point, isn't it? Ooh, a rhetoric's nice too but you just have to explain it, nothing
and add because as a filler for eight hours to kill it forever—now
or
i could grab a flamethrower and burn my brows and the whole garden with it
at 11.57 pm.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
