Of late, I have been thinking of connections
served
in a white bowl of fresh fruit;
we talk about political poetry as if it’s a kind of effusion
about something going on—
can we hope to see past the glitter, the charm
and gravel in voice?

I am percussion,
city heat blushing with the surge of ongoing atrocities
tucked
beneath the rug of the fourth estate;
do they really think they can separate ache (that strips
carnations of colour) from writing?

Despite its fragility, the city comes out as artwork
invaluable
in medium of ice; like darker veins, the cold winter is our friend
for it freezes the larvae of pests and allows anarchy
to die disheveled, diffused
and soft—in my book, that’s better than bedside coffee
and croissants.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Word List: ache, gravel, percussion, city, carnation, bedside, heat, bread, poems 💝

Posted for Open Link Night #281 @ dVerse Poets Pub