Cedar box prisoners. We've become vacant, flat—two right hands
one figure. The tape on our wrist is yellowed, cracking
the tears are apparent, or will be
when exiting this pocket
& finally lifting the cover—(Yes, daylight will enable
the getting used to.) The stench
of cedar will shift too. Preservation
into growth, this coffin into flames—My sketched heart will catch beat
& your bleached skin will pinken yet, we'll breathe again, after.
YOU ARE READING
Of Yesterday
Poetry[Completed] Of Yesterday is a poetry collection written over the last decade, and deals intimately with emotions related to loss, grief, love, recovery and renewal. The pictures used in this chapbook are my own photographs, taken and edited personal...
