On Turning 25

I’ve been fiddling with poetry a bit. Here is some.

 

I

sifting through the sawdust

of what is mine

and what is not mine

I hear the tune of

little flowers

growing white

or deep blue

in some forgotten valley

and this

I claim

against all comers

to be

mine

 

II

several layers deep

under muscle and tissue

lie the fragile-strong bones

that exist

nowhere else

in calcium-rich pockets

I sing myself

to myself

breaking and re-growing

as good bones

do

 

III

I hear you breaking from a distance

as I hear a singer

in some other room

but the voice is no longer mine to listen for

and the microphone is tinny

so I exit when I can

and take the next bus out

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