Saint George, restore me
to my senses.
All I have is the lonely arc
of what’s left:
a tin of shoe shine,
a bundle of slender matches,
my paper-airplane skin.
I reach up and under
your curtain. I can see
right into the middle-school
gym across the street.
It is full of balloons.
I pray to you as if
God is spun sugar.
My voice is bruised
after being battered
by all those birds.
Can you hear me?
No comments:
Post a Comment