for a moon
lwh
that spins slowly
and echoes our fugitive secrets
Category: Poetry
My Life as Your Car Keys
You felt in your pocket I wasn’t there You checked your coat I wasn’t there You asked the guy next to you I had been in the corner You asked the girl in the corner I had been in someone else’s hand
yellow moon becomes amber mum becomes question of bridges that go nowhere becomes smell of paper, hot out of the printer becomes something golden that was alive just yesterday but today smells newly, richly dead.
First published in Door is a Jar
a winter state of being
lwh
where all traction is lost but
the wonder is unending
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