untitled poem 4.7.10

there are flowers.
it’s a speedway.
there are roses in the urban garden.

something needs…
the minute, the sky,
how the peach-tinged rose
is pressing against the setting sky,
a flower pressed in time’s volume.

i had forgotten how
to make a moment matter.
how to saturate it with
color, or a verb better yet.

i had forgotten i had a
language. an undercurrent
that stirs this wild slumber
attentive. and that if I could…
be quiet for a moment

I could hear it whisper
and know its secrets.


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