It might be staggering
the sadness of the red neon
turning the yellow brick pink
but it does not touch me
so full am I of backyards in the rain
of a certain light that brings me to you
rotting mulch and eggshells, you remember
the cicadas that died suddenly there.
No longer am I moved to sweep the porch
or throw out the decaying couch that sits,
creaking amongst the empty cans of beer,
from which we glimpsed the frontiers of the real.
Lift a bony finger
to my burning cheek, tug gently.
If I should remain unmoved,
tear at my stony flesh.
If these past years have clouded my blue eyes
spoon them from my skull; better be blind than
keep idle watch Youth like the cicada
drops from the summer sky despite its bloom.
the sadness of the red neon
turning the yellow brick pink
but it does not touch me
so full am I of backyards in the rain
of a certain light that brings me to you
rotting mulch and eggshells, you remember
the cicadas that died suddenly there.
No longer am I moved to sweep the porch
or throw out the decaying couch that sits,
creaking amongst the empty cans of beer,
from which we glimpsed the frontiers of the real.
Lift a bony finger
to my burning cheek, tug gently.
If I should remain unmoved,
tear at my stony flesh.
If these past years have clouded my blue eyes
spoon them from my skull; better be blind than
keep idle watch Youth like the cicada
drops from the summer sky despite its bloom.
