By Whitney Johnson
Owners are like robotics machines with many branches
And some are worn from inked art—
They cause the eyes to dance in color
Or skip into an impression made world.
I have never seen one move, but
Sometimes they grasp the arm tightly.
Fingers are when the body hole floods
And lingers through a pipe:
Then the hole is an ocean and traps
Like gilled birds underneath the blue.
Heat is when the string is lit.
It has the strength of seven suns
And can defeat the nippy notes
That hum through the air with no rhythm.
If it twists like a hook, the flats push it to
Their flesh to a placid paradise.
Extinction is when the cavity swallows—
A wound that fattens the hollow.
In the evening when the hues avert,
They crouch in corners,
And see in inked art, themselves—
In impressions, with the lights out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amazing poem! Your word choice is great, and your imagry is amazing!! I love how everyone can understand this poem differently. I would like a few more lines to it though, its great as it is but maybe to add a few more details to it would make it a bit more clear for the readers. I re-read a few times to fully understand it- now that I do I love this poem as well! Great job Whitney, I cannot wait to read more of your work!
No comments:
Post a Comment