Poem at 23
This evening, last year’s sky
passed over my eyes,
the same binding clouds
clenching a fallen sun
into that same familiar wink;
again, the breeze found its way
beneath the blue
tin-roofed house,
under the same faded shirt
hanging from bones
wreaking of old mornings.
This evening, last year’s words
broke into the same strangled sounds,
the same dark transient thoughts
searching through closed windows
like a cat watching finches,
shattering gold through glass — I
cannot say if my breath
has caused this dew
to stream down my windows,
but I have seen love
and tasted seasoned, honest words.
