there is no spring like that
of seventeen or twenty-one
when the world is kodachromed
and the flitting wings
of insects small and large
carry more promise than disease.
it is between the dust filled tubes
of light that i find myself--
the hairs on my arms are never
flat and resting for the sun
won't reach their base,
won't drench my skin,
won't offer an ounce of warmth,
it avoids me,
and i, too, hide to spite my youth,
my clear skin,
my hungry eyes.
only we have perfected the art of elusion
to benefit no one,
not even ourselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment