(no subject)
We Had Need (01.07.2006)
the boy is mad as wasps,
fingers smelling of nickels,
eyes camera black;
he tapes plastic over windows.
"i fear the sun.
its incandescent yellow
turns apples copper green.
their pips sprout crooked tails
on the carpet linting below."
i fear his wine-grey teeth
nipping holes in his right-hand thumb;
his blood a new-born red
paints constellations of lapwings
that turn bruise brown in our bed.
_______________________
drella says this is not a sonnet.
i say it's close enough.