NaPoWriMo Day Whatever. I have clearly failed to make this regular.
NaPoWriMo 2015, Day 2.
All traumas rearrange themselves
into a familiar shape. Like on T.V.,
when a swarm of locusts come together
to form a giant fist, and the madman
scientist watches from his headquarters,
cackling, though you can’t help
but be amused. It seems comical,
to think all this—the dim light,
the chipped paint, the paroxysm
of bliss I summoned from your mouth
with mine—can be washed down,
like a bitter vitamin. The other term
for this is processing, or, to break down
into a form that can be easily deemed
palatable. I think that fits also. Observe
the act up close, prove to yourself
that you can stomach it. This is
what you do. This is what happens.
NaPoWriMo Day 01. Alright then.
The view from here is a strange one.
Far-off places don’t appear bigger, their images
aren’t incredible enough to be privileged
by the trick of perspective. But their colors
are brighter, almost neon. Rose-colored
lenses are what I want for these eyes,
peeled back too long on the watch
for spies and intruders, but instead,
I have you. I’m still getting the hang
of extravagant love, as if it were a dance
my body had forgotten, though I know
it should be as easy as sitting
on a swingset. The cranes
from the construction site
cast their long shadows over us,
and I know things will be fine.
Not always, but usually.