untitled (20170413)

hope is the thing with feathers
despair is the thing with scales

i am the watermelon man
reduced to a slick white rind
my seeds swallowed on accident
or spit into the street
for angels to pick and peck at

eli, eli, i’ve been thinking

some days the color leaches
out of everything
some days the everything
tastes of pine resin
and trail dust

eli, eli

if you swallow a watermelon seed
one will grow in your belly
and then what will you do

always feed them to the angels
with the oil slicks around their necks
rainbow nooses

i’ve been thinking

——

It’s still National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 13

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20 thoughts on “untitled (20170413)

    1. Thanks. The more I think about angels, the less I want to hear whatever news they’re bringing. They can stick to eating seeds.

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