.jpg)
you take a bite out of my bed
as if it were a pink cake, as if
it were something to be eaten.
the frosting can’t withstand
this heat. I can’t keep it looped
up in tiny peaks, like mountains
like clouds we brought home.
I feed the tadpoles in the bowl
on the counter nothing but
the sugar that puddles on the floor.
...will they ever grow legs? will they
question this life as much as I do?
will they live long enough
to ask?
No comments:
Post a Comment