Turn Off the Light but Not My Madonna

Creeping the expressway,

shadows can change,

and claim; sudden tenderness,

 

broken bones are sad,

swollen where the holes make homes

inside, we go towards the light, or

maybe I’m wrong—mistaken;

 

I’m somewhere that’s for sure:

a picture is taken, by a church,

in the grass, a newspaper boat

filled to its bow with whispers;

 

I search the dark recesses onboard

and blow through my hands,

make little tunnels with my fingers

in the bottom of sand; taking it well and

burying it in, that’s where those things direct

wisdom, in pieces and spread all about,

 

wherever I am, happen to be, like finger paint,

smeared into church wood; a new shoulder-length haircut,

into a hallway that shook all about;

 

dreams, like ringworm,

circle and burrow; my thoughts air out,

travel the length of my neck; I think I found

where my heart meets my pulse and inside my hair,

all tangled about in dirty blonde hair;

 

it gets me nowhere but still smiles down,

bleeds on my face, a pause—

a finger to a dam,

for all it’s worth.

 

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