The perfect season for words


Blank is the map of my brain secreting

pearls of commas and semi colons

but not any periods of value in the winter.

Dead is the ink in my pen,

a skunk discharging odor of garlic wrapped

in rotten rhythms, in the middle of spring.

White is the shadow of the blue bedspread

drowning the bones of sentences

with tears on a hot summer day.

Barren is the womb

of words hanging at the cemetery,

as maple reaches the well of autumn.

I decry the moment of write right

with seasons escaping tunnels of distraction,

becoming a noose around the fingertip.


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