miherseed

2021-04-27 11:03 am

the santan dew crawls      out of the stalk
if you break it apart                    from the bush
suddenly it burns                           brighter than dust

small grand doors                            tiptoed to kiss their frames

held by hinges,                                        but try to reach north

alas, their fates                                         are back and forth

there’s a somnolence                            to homes that are not yours

holed with metaphors                             you never explored to tell

your throat is for similes                      or possibly something else

i wonder                                          if wells hear wishes
or if they are mere echoes       of aired fulfillment
perhaps that’s why              the well water 
only gets to             see the sky

even if i bury my fingers beneath the soil, i am no root. 
even when i draw lines on the sand, i make no shore.