I am a crime scene
my body tingles,
waiting to happen.
Patient for the red tape
and the catapulted light.
you can't stop the sounds pushed out
my teeth got cut on the empty sidewalk
of words made rabid by being unspoken.
A poem should be
as the body drinks the margins
the spaces are harvested in your brain
Thickets of beatless linebreaks
the tall grasses ready to be romped into matted music.
A poem needs more than a backyard
and will always find holes in the best built of fences.
I miss the blue skies
and cinnamon freckles
scars between your smiles.
Your skin gives me the patience of the seasons.