All the details seem loose now.
I've forgotten to be profound
when I thought cuddling the worst
was like placing my hand on
the creases of where I left off.
Living in the shadows of
returning days moving like
slips of paper falling. Open
windows changes dust and
staleness to where I left off.
Days just lay on top of one
another becoming an address
to raise children in. As the details
are guests coming and going,
revisiting where we left off.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
