in this time of dead clocks.
We can interview the air, jammed with blackbirds.
We can discard our clock-lungs,
turn our hearts to fragrant bowers.
We can tightrope, half-awake
over the roofs of our old loves,
and fall into chimneys like bones into limbs,
fantastically existent, howling, dumbfounded.
poem #5 of my 39 in 39 days.
for Friday 55 at Verse Escape, hosted by the incredibly fab Hedgewitch O' The Wilds.