psithurism

lunchboxpoems:

You like peppers.
I do not.

The girl you love is still alive,
you call her home. That is not her name—but that is what
you call her.

You’re attracted to edge and class.
I like things that flow in tatters.

I drop what I’m doing to pick up your phone call.
You drop my phone calls to watch…

From the garden rose the sound of bees


that lurched and wobbled through the peonies.


We ate eggs, French toast, drank milk that warmed


in minutes in the sun while fat drones swarmed


and looped like drunkards in the purple field.


On the porch we heard their bodies yield


…

(Source: lunchboxpoems)