Sunday

constructive criticism always welcome

Sunday

 

The older she gets, the more closed she becomes…as if she wants to render the world to a dot. 

And             let it go.

 

With a chestnut in her hand.

Hold onto it,

It’s both burial

And autumn.

 

Slap me

Hard.

to  dare

the hope,

the prospect

and saving money,

stacking the clothes

into season drawers,

sleeping calmly?

It’s without teeth,

The upcoming

Wash of

Her naked

Utterance.

 

It drips,

Her sheet

Of failures.

 

I spit corners for her, walls, solid to bump into.

Cower regret to its exits.

We bark peace

at

sea,

only for it

to return

it

in her,

small,

so stopped up

and

small.

How young of me to hide in the wardrobe.

Like a dog

Grieving

His

Brother.

 

© 2014 Marri