Feeling like
the deep lines of age,
I am finally moving out
from under the covers,
running, with words
that tangle in the mind,
trickle syllables like rain--
too fast to be captured,
too loud to be ignored.
I want the crazy light
falling from old books
to warm my eyes, I want
to blurt lines so hard and fast
that synapses collapse
from the weight.
Even when the words come pure,
sugar on the tongue, they melt
too soon, all morning frost
or acid dreams,
and like recycled glass I am
cut by someone else's diamonds.
My fingers
quicksand into the keys,
and that's me, all sucked up
into a blue screen,
still twisting shadows
around myself like folds
in the paper of night.
This poem was originally published in East Coast Literary Review, Summer 2014.
