Sunday, April 5, 2009


This is old. really old. But I figured I'd put something on here, and I haven't felt poetic enough to write something new.

my heart is not in this room.
the others- their eyes glaze over with some milky film,
their hands speak with curious tongues that I do not hear
and voices spew out like fireworks pricking July…
but my heart is in June.

good man- have you not known all along that
my heart is not in this town?
every corner on Main reeks of hopes long dissolved
and cracked windows reflect stains of spirits there-
lost yet praying for found.

I let myself sink into the hills and softest streaks
of gaping fields folding in the purple mountains’ wake-
they cover me with whipping willow shoots,
lather my skin with sweet, brown dirt-
strip me clean of city steam.

my heart is livid in my lover’s eyes.
those eyes that adored me.
or was that before I cracked over his boyish wit?
was it he that stymied this organ with thickened blood
or…did I crave the taste of metal in the first place?

I sense a beating from the closet.
ba bump, ba bump, ba bump it lies there in the closet
I go towards the doors while the walls close in
and there lies my heart in the closet’s dusty floors
like a child’s lonely toy…

dear fellow in the street,
or preacher or friend-

my heart is not mine to enjoy.

1 comment:

-G said...

This is very good Lindsey. I especially like "and voices spew out like fireworks pricking July…
but my heart is in June."

Very nice.