though love be a day


this poem is not:
that red
(wheelbarrow) 
red rose, or a summer’s 
day, or some weird 
wild ecstasy over a Grecian 
urn. 

it’s not walking 
in beauty nor on the road 
less taken 
or through some 
godforsaken woods 
(in snow, or otherwise). 

it’s not counting 
the ways 
or the breaths 
or the deaths of burning 
moons. 

it’s fresh out of 
philosophy 
(and plums)
and kingdoms by the sea
and ways to carry a heart 
(kinda gross, if you think it through). 

this poem’s really not sure 
what to do,
except sit in the corner 
and 
(somewhat creepily) 
stare at you. 

In April, we poem. today is day 20, and I am tired.

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2 Responses to though love be a day

  1. Clever and profound… cool too!

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